


england is mine, it owes me a living

by sarahbacou



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Author Projecting onto Crowley (Good Omens), BAMF Aziraphale (Good Omens), Character Study, Chronic Pain, Drug Abuse, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hurt, Hurt Crowley (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mutual Pining, NaNoWriMo, NaNoWriMo 2019, Overdosing, Pining Aziraphale (Good Omens), Pining Crowley (Good Omens), Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), Sickfic, The plague, Worried Aziraphale (Good Omens), aziraphale quite literally fucks off to poland for 6 years to avoid his problems, black death, nanowrimo winner
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-01
Updated: 2020-10-27
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:41:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 49,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21637516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarahbacou/pseuds/sarahbacou
Summary: Crowley has a bit of a problem with drugs and self-worth.Aziraphale decides to teach him a lesson.aka: crowley hates the 14th century and aziraphale has to show him there are always reasons to continue loving and living life.(Chapters to be posted every other week or so; tags will be added as needed)
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 46
Kudos: 163





	1. CHAPTER ONE

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this for nanowrimo and it killed me so i hope y'all enjoy it!

_**PART ONE: CROWLEY** _

Crowley hated his body. There wasn’t a singular part that he considered being even remotely beautiful. Everything was a painful reminder of his Fall, from the roots of his fiery-red hair to the soles of his feet, permanently signed with soot. His fingernails would naturally end in blackened points, and Crowley supposed it had something to do with him being untouchable. If a human were to come too close, Crowley simply had to swipe at them with his claws, and a spurt of blood across their chest would cause them to collapse into deadly silence. It was a nice protective measure, but that wasn’t why Crowley had them. All demons were issued with hands like his. Its purpose was to kill humans, lead them down a slow and painful path of death to an even slower and more painful afterlife. Crowley usually wore gloves if he didn’t have time that month to file the points down to a rounded edge. 

A more dead giveaway of his unangelic status was, of course, his eyes. Crowley  _ loathed _ his eyes. Yellow and spotted and slit like a snake’s. They reminded Crowley of just how desolate he had truly become. There wasn’t redemption for those eyes of his. There were no mirrors in his home, and he’d taken great care to only purchase coarse wooden objects so they wouldn’t show his reflection. He couldn’t be distracted by his own reflection. Crowley couldn’t afford to stare at himself and wallow in self-pity. It was unbecoming of a demon to feel any sorrow; the feelings of love and empathy were deplorable visitors in Crowley’s sickened mind. So instead he forced himself to feel nothing. Nothing, after all, was better than the soul-crushing, near-falling sensation of depression.

Crowley had taken a liking to burrowing up in his room nowadays. There was less of a reason to go out, what with the most interesting aspect of humanity - humans - promised to soon start dying at rates Crowley never thought he would see. He’d venture out to stretch his legs, of course, permitted the weather was warm enough, and he’d maybe look at the threadbare marketplace before sighing morosely and slinking back to his apartment for another ten days. Though certainly not poor, inflation rates had left him in a spot of bother as of late, and he could afford a third story chamber. It came with enough dreadful attributes that his mood was scarcely improved, something Hell appreciated. Hastur told him it didn’t do him any good to live lavishly. Might give him some ideas, after all, and demons like Crowley were to follow and not think. An open patch of the roof a few feet to the right of his bed made Crowley almost long for the putrid heat of Hell, especially in the winter as it was now. The floor was made of stone, as were the walls, so the heat was sucked out of the room with moot accuracy. The pile of blankets Crowley had procured did nothing for his cold-blooded nature. He wouldn’t freeze, no, but he was always cursed with more pain than usual. Aching joints, sluggish fingers, and an annoyingly numb nose. 

The room was poorly furnished which made Crowley even more morose, but he could never find the ambition inside of him to actually remedy the problem. It housed a simple bed of straw, a chamber pot, a desk and chair with a few empty inkwells and broken quills, and a small, near-primitive fireplace Crowley had the mind to have installed before November hit. Conversely, there was a window near the chair and bed, bringing cold air in the night.

It helped, the fire did, on days like today, when his body was less like arms and legs and more of thrashing pain and agony. The crackling of the near rotten wood grounded Crowley, gave him something to focus on instead of the wave of stabbing sensations penetrating his abdomen. Outwardly there was nothing wrong with him. There hadn’t been, not since he’d asked  _ why _ and subsequently Fallen. His skin was soft like silk and white like milk, with no physical indications that Crowley should be writhing around in bed like he was. But no matter how ridiculous the position he laid there was no rest for him. There couldn’t be. He didn’t deserve it. 

The fire also provided the heat that Crowley longed for. He wasn’t unbearably hot, but it was nice to feel the warmth on the bottom of his aching feet. It reminded him of one of the Dover beaches he visited before the plague set in. The sea was cool and the sand was warm between his toes, and there had been enough children there to laugh and play that Crowley decided that he liked the beach, decided he liked that it brought out the best of humanity. He wanted to go back someday, but it was too cold now. The snow had started to settle on the ground outside, making the whole of London grey and lifeless. There was a pile of snow in Crowley’s room from the patch of missing roof. He didn’t bother to clean it up; it’d just be there again after the next snowstorm.

November really was a shitty month. It took the golden leaves of fall and replaced them with brown nothingness. Southern breezes could not find their way past the thick northern clouds, getting lost in the tip of Spain. Crowley thought about moving to Spain for a short while six years ago. It was November then, too, and the appeal of warmer weather called to him. He was decidedly done with winter and the aches and pains it brought him. Crowley was a snap away from relocating there when Aziraphale had hastily hurried into his room.

“Oh, my dear, it’s absolutely dreadful!” 

“Angel, glad to see you.” Crowley nodded his head in greeting, and the door shut behind Aziraphale as he took a seat on the hard bed. Crowley hoped Spain might have some feather mattresses. His back was sore and knotted when he woke up every morning. “What’s it now? Is another library being burned? Perhaps an author died? No… too easy… ah, I’ve got it. You heard a child use your Lord’s name in vain.” 

Aziraphale shot him a disapproving look. His mouth was in a deep frown, eyes drawn to his tightly clasped hands. “You’re not funny, Crowley. This is big. Really big. Please don’t make jokes at a time like this.” 

“Alright, alright. Sorry. You just look so wound up, I thought… nevermind. What’s up?” 

“Pestilence is coming to Europe. I’ve just overheard Gabriel talk about it.”

Crowley narrowed his eyes, striding over to the desk. His pain level was manageable today, though his legs felt as if he were being stabbed with pins and needles. He took a seat on the chair, deciding to put his feet up on the foot of the bed that Aziraphale hadn’t occupied. Elevation helped, if only a little. “You sure Gabriel hasn’t got the date wrong?”

Aziraphale shook his head, a pallid hand running through his soft curls. He was frightfully pale. “No, Gabriel wouldn’t… I think he heard it from the Metatron.”

“Ah, the mouth of God,” Crowley confirmed. “So what do  _ I _ have anything to do about it? Isn’t this supposed to be a good thing for my side?” He watched Aziraphale swallow and pull nervously at the sleeves of his shirt. Cream, Crowley noted. Aziraphale was wearing cream. Everything else around the pair was dark, and the small fire was chewing happily on the emberous coals. Crowley hadn’t purchased wood in a while. The room was going to get cold soon. But Aziraphale always shone unlike anything Crowley had ever seen. He was brighter than the stars Crowley looked at, he was brighter than any candle on the desk. He was certainly the brightest thing in Crowley’s peripheral at the moment. 

Their eyes met after another second or two. The ice blue irises Aziraphale sported looked alarmingly panicked. Or, rather, the edges of them did. Most of the blue had been swallowed up by endless black. Crowley didn’t know much about human anatomy. He supposed he ought to have been more eloquent with the nature of the body he resided in, but the fact of the matter was that he felt more snake than human at the best of times and more of a demon at the worst, so it never occurred to him to learn about how the human body reacts to news such as this. He  _ did _ know, however, that pupils tended to dilate when met with true fear, indicating a fight or flight response in the mind. 

“Azira-” 

“They’re all going to die. How is that good for any of us?” Aziraphale sounded so far away, so horrifyingly quiet Crowley subconsciously reached out a hand to grip Aziraphale but stopped himself. He wasn’t sure if he could get Aziraphale back to the tiny room, wasn’t sure if he even wanted to try. Crowley drew back his hand and opted for snapping a jug of dark wine and two cups into existence. Keeping his eyes on Aziraphale he poured him a drink, handing over the goblet slowly. 

“It can’t be that bad, right? I mean, humans are pretty resilient, after all.”

Aziraphale drank deeply with greedy gulps, and when he had drained the cup and shoved it towards Crowley for refilling did he speak. “They’re calling it a pandemic. First of its kind, actually. She’s quite excited for the vocabulary to be used.”

“Okay, pandemic,” Crowley repeated cooly. He filled the cup gradually this time, trying the new word out on his tongue. It sounded bitter and harsh, and the hard ‘C’ sound made everything about it seem that much more final, as if you were choking on the future like you didn’t have one. “Doesn’t sound nice.” He decided, handing the cup back to Aziraphale. 

“Would you like to know what it means?” Aziraphale asked, and if he didn’t sound so frightened, Crowley would have sworn there was an edge of acid to his tone of voice. Aziraphale took a sip and spoke again without having waited for Crowley to answer. “It’s a disease that quickly and severely kills people and spreads throughout an entire continent.” 

“Shit.” Crowley took a drink of wine. He didn’t know what else to say or what else to do. The coals shifted in the fireplace. He watched the orange sparks as they flew into the air in the reflection of Aziraphale’s eyes. Crowley could almost make himself out, and he looked away from Aziraphale once more. His gaze traveled to the street below.

More often than not Crowley’s view of the world outside of the window showed him a couple of variances. His building faced opposite a church, which kept him in his place when his thoughts traveled from cautiously optimistic to genuinely excited about being alive. Crowley was a demon. Demons decidedly did not get to enjoy life. What they got to do was make life full of poisonous temptations for humans, and sometimes that was allowed to bring a smile to their faces, but that was the only exception. Aziraphale, though, had turned Crowley’s viewpoint around, taught him that the old ladies who spent their days' knitting were a wondrous sight to behold. Taught him that even though life for humans looked dull and boring, they were living in the moment, not taking a second for granted. 

“Can you imagine growing old like that?” Aziraphale pondered one day.

“We’re older than them, Angel.” Crowley pointed out.

“Yes, but imagine if we weren’t celestials.”

“I don’t really want to.” 

“Why?”

_ Because then you would die, or I would die. Either way, I would have to spend an eternity without you, and that scares me more than anything else in the universe. It scares me more than Falling ever did. _

“Wrinkles,” Was what Crowley settled on. Aziraphale hummed in agreement. 

The church outside kept him on the right path. The stained glass windows reminded him that Christ died, but he didn’t die for Crowley. He didn’t die for those who had sinned far before any of the humans set forth on Earth. Christ, for all the pain and agony he suffered on the cross, did not do it for Crowley. In his life, he’d been nice, or he had been the time that Crowley met him, but that didn’t mean Crowley was forgiven. He never could be. Not even the Son of God Herself could look a demon in the eyes and tell him that everything was okay, that he was absolved of his sins and exonerated of all his past wrongdoings. Crowley didn’t know if he even wanted to be forgiven. He wouldn’t know what to do with himself if he was, but maybe if God still loved him, or at least tolerated him, Crowley wouldn’t feel the hot immortal shame banging around inside of him when he looked outside.

The church was light in color and the way they were stacked suggested to Crowley that someone had clearly loved the Lord while building it. They probably considered it a great honor to build a shrine to Her Holiness. Crowley might’ve too, had he ever been given the chance. Or maybe he’d build something for Aziraphale. At any rate, there was love in every single detail of the church, and Crowley knew this because he felt horribly empty when he looked at it. There was nothing inside of him except for the sickening feeling of falling. Sometimes he felt the same way when he looked at Aziraphale. It was a harrowing revelation for Crowley when he realized that he couldn’t  _ feel love _ .  _ He _ could love just fine, but it was looking at beings and buildings of love that left him in a heap on the floor, gasping for the air he couldn’t quite get to, head pounding with a vicious migraine. It was Crowley’s reminder that he was truly unloveable. 

On that evening there were a few kids laughing and running around the skirts of their mothers, who were conversing by the church doors. Crowley almost felt something akin to remorse inside of him. If what Aziraphale said was true… But it couldn’t. She couldn’t do it. Not again. She couldn’t kill children as she did during the flood. 

“The children?” He managed finally, the cup of wine nearly half-empty now.

“Most of them will die,” Aziraphale confirmed quietly, minutely. 

“We could… Well, I mean… They can’t…” Crowley ran a hand through his hair frustratingly, puffing out his cheeks in a furious attempt to stop this all from happening. “We have to stop this, Aziraphale. I can’t watch everyone die. Not again.” 

Aziraphale shrugged, reaching for the wine jug. Crowley couldn’t particularly say whether or not this was a good vintage make. It tasted like ash to him, just ash swirling in his mouth. The only thing that Crowley demanded was that it would supply enough intoxicating alcohol to numb everything. “There’s nothing we can do, dear. I’m just as distraught as you are.”

It felt like there was no air in the room. Spain was so very far away now, a distant dream. Crowley couldn’t leave London, not when the little ones were going to need someone to hold their hands. He wasn’t sure if Hastur would allow Crowley to comfort people as they took their final shuddering gasps of life, but he wasn’t sure if he cared either. 

He drained his cup and refilled it. “So that’s it then. She’s killing billions of people just so we can use the bloody word ‘pandemic.’”

Aziraphale nodded and took a sip of his wine. “That, but Gabriel says we should rejoice. After all this, the humans will enter a time of renewed worship for Her. There’s going to be lots of art! A rebirth of sorts. They’ll call it a ‘renaissance’. It’ll be lovely, dear, just you wait.” Crowley noticed that Aziraphale’s voice sounded somewhat stronger in tone and volume now, and he seemed a little less pale. 

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” 

Aziraphale stared at him blankly. “Well, silver linings and all that. I thought you might-”

“You thought I might  _ what _ , exactly?” Crowley whispered venomously, teeth clenched together in an effort to keep his voice harsh and sharp. The walls weren’t exactly soundproof, and he would really rather not have the neighbors listen in on their conversation. “Pestilence is coming to Europe to kill humans just so… so your Lord can have a self-indulgent ego trip?! This isn’t some game, Aziraphale. People - good people - are going to die, and you’re sat here drinking wine,  _ pretending to be afraid _ -”

“I am afraid. I don’t question why the Lord kills, but that doesn’t mean I don’t fear for the lives of the humans.” 

Crowley slammed his feet onto the ground, biting his tongue in an effort to keep from screaming out in pain. “Then act like it! Don’t try and make a good thing out of this, Aziraphale, don’t you dare. There’s nothing good about mass graves full of corpses.” 

“My only other option is succumbing to the fear! I freeze up when I’m scared, Crowley. If there’s a good thing to come out of all this death, then is it so wrong of me to focus on that while I help the people I can’t save?” 

The fire had died out now, and even the bright cream of Aziraphale’s coat seemed to be swallowed up by the darkness. Crowley set his wooden goblet on the desk and resigned himself to holding his head in his hands, thumbs rubbing shaky circles into his scalp. He was hyper-aware of the copper ringlets that cascaded out of his fingers and down his forearms and back. He wanted to scream. He wanted to take a knife and cut his hair until his head was bloody and red and raw. He wanted to take the hot coals from the fire and rake them across his skin until he felt nothing but pain and saw nothing but bone because that’s all the humans would be feeling soon enough. Might as well start his penance now. He wanted to smack Aziraphale until he saw stars, shake him until there was some sense knocked loose into that feather-brain of his.

Crowley, most of all, wanted to kiss Aziraphale. He wanted to kiss him like he was going to lose him to the sickness that was going to claim the people outside. He wanted to part his lips with his own and relish the sweetness of the world on his teeth and tongue. Crowley wanted to kiss Aziraphale so he could remember him as he thought he would taste, sugary and holy and everything Crowley could not be but everything he ached for in the cold, barren hours of the morning. But now, with this new revelation, Crowley wasn’t sure Aziraphale was any of those things. Maybe his teeth tasted of burning flesh and his tongue had the tang of slightly rancid manure. Maybe Crowley, as Aziraphale had just so plainly pointed out, didn’t know him as well as he thought. After all, Crowley was under the strict impression that Aziraphale, as an Angel, should have been fighting tooth and nail to save humans from such a gruesome fate.

But then he remembered Noah and the Ark and the flood, and Crowley called himself a fool.

“Get out,” He managed shakily, left pointer finger indicating to the closed wooden door. His feet never recovered from being slammed on the floor, and the shocking pain was slowly working up to Crowley’s back. 

“What?” Aziraphale sounded softly surprised. 

“Get out, Aziraphale,” Crowley repeated, his voice gaining some intimidation once more. He drew a long breath in from his nose, taking time to savor the depleting warmth of the air in his lungs. Warmth wouldn’t come to him for a long time. “You’re not who I thought you were.” 

He didn’t look up, didn’t care to try and see the look on Aziraphale’s face, just kept his head hung in his right hand. Crowley’s body started to tremble now, but he wasn’t sure if it was due to anger or pain. He knew that Aziraphale had left by the soft opening and closing of the door. Crowley slumped to the floor, weakened by his cursed body and his shattered mind, and he stayed there until morning.


	2. CHAPTER TWO

Pestilence took four years to make the trek to London. Maybe they’d stopped along the way and started a plague somewhere in the Netherlands or Italy; Crowley had no way of knowing if this was the case or not but would’ve liked to hold onto the dreadfully hopeful thought that they hadn’t. He caught sight of them when they first sludged into town, white-skinned and white-eyed and white-haired. They took the name of Albus, and their cloak dripped sewage onto the road. Their horse was tinted the same dull yellow as the gloves of the rider, and Crowley felt pity for the grass that was stepped on, for it was blackened and dead before the horse ever lifted up its foot. 

They looked tired to Crowley, who was tired himself. It had been a long time since he’d seen Aziraphale. Crowley hadn’t anticipated the emotional drain that came with losing his best friend and had spent less time out of the house as usual. He made an exception though, to see the one who falsely came to them as Albus. They slid off the horse, the white boots making a horrible squelching sound as the soles met the mud. Crowley stood a way aways, cautious enough not to venture too close. He was a demon, and while he himself could not become a victim of the plague, the same could not be said for his corporation. He was in enough pain as it was, Crowley did not want the extra added torment of paperwork required for a new body.

Albus’ eyes, though milky white with no irises, exuded exhaustion. There were dark circles under their eyes, only adding to the near-ghost like effect they carried around with them. The movements they made were sluggish as if their insides were of muck and mire. They patted the horses flank, and a small cloud of dust and fleas rose from it. The horse neighed and Albus soothed it, moving forward and stroking its snout. Where they walked black sewage flowed. Spiders crawled out of the horse's mouth as it barred its large flaxen teeth.

“Hush,  imjuan ,” they crooned, and Crowley could not discern male nor female from the multitude of voices that seemed to reside in the body. “Let’s not spoil the surprise, hm?”

The sky was dark with anticipation, and it was only then that Crowley noticed that what was dripping out of Albus’ white cloak was not sewage at all, but dozens of black rats pouring down their body. They scurried out onto the streets and into the eleven or so buildings that resided on the block. One particularly large one scampered over Crowley’s foot as he squeaked by; its large pink tail hiking up his ankle as it passed. Crowley kicked at it and loathed the nausea that was building up in his stomach by the second. He abhorred the fact that no matter what happened, he couldn’t stop it. Not being able to stop cataclysmic events made Crowley sick, and the fact that he  _ wanted _ to stop them made him even sicker. 

Something bumped into Crowley, and he looked to his side expectantly. Maybe Aziraphale had come to witness this monstrosity as well. But where Aziraphale’s bright, blue, shining eyes should be there was just a sign for a pub down the way. Crowley looked down and caught sight of a young child running past him, not deterred from their self-imposed mission. The child ran up to Pestilence before Crowley had realized what was happening. The crowd that had gathered to see this new foreigner was deathly silent. Albus knelt in front of the little one, the smile on their face thinly stretched from ear to ear. Their lips were a urine color. 

“No!” Crowley cried suddenly, outstretching his hand as he pushed his way through the men and women. He tripped over his own sandaled feet, dust flying up as Crowley fell down, his dress tearing and his knee twisting.

“Child, I gift you this flower,” Albus spoke, and their voice blended the world into soft velvet submission. They reached out a spindly hand and pulled a flower from the child’s ear. It was a sprig of sage, and the child grinned at such a trick, greedy hands grabbing for it. “Yes, yes, is it not beautiful? Go on, my precious one. Touch it and know only peace.”

The scream in Crowley’s throat died as he watched the child collapse onto the road. Albus licked their thin yellow lips and stowed the sage back in the folds of their robes, getting back on their horse and riding away back into the green wilderness. The crowd stayed where they were, too fascinated or horrified to do anything other than gwap at the corpse in front of them. It was deathly silent as Crowley crawled his way forward, ignoring the pain his body was seized with. It hadn’t been bad until he’d fallen. He was vaguely aware of something wet slinking down his leg, and the back of his mind had registered it as blood. 

Crowley reached the child after what seemed like hours. Every inch he had taken felt like agony, and he hadn’t felt his hopeless since the Crucifixion. There was nothing he could conceivably do, no demonic miracles to perform. His stomach flipped as Crowley pulled the dead child towards him, forcing himself in a sitting position so he could cradle the head. The child’s face was covered in puss-filled warts, the skin hard and calcified near the base of the half-circles. The eyes exuded a sticky yellow substance, but Crowley wiped it away with the sleeve of his dress, not caring if the residue remained for months. The child had been dead the moment they hit the floor, but with the way their mouth was twisted in such a fine and articulate grimace, Crowley knew the pain they had felt was ineffable.

He wished Aziraphale were here beside him, a grounding hand on his shoulder to squeeze assurances into his aching nerve endings. He wished Aziraphale were here beside him to send a prayer to Her for the lost child, saying something along the lines of ‘a lamb has come to you, O Great Shepard, receive them with open and loving arms. Amen.’ He wished Aziraphale were here so Crowley didn’t have to go through this alone, didn’t have to hold back the bile in the back of his throat, didn’t have to worry about getting blood on the child’s clothing.

But Aziraphale hadn’t shown up, and Crowley puked up the water he’d had for breakfast that morning, and his insides burned with regret and grief, and blood was smeared across the child’s backside.

If the child had parents around, they clearly were not invested enough to come and collect the body. Crowley pressed a heaving sob into the child’s shoulder, forcing himself up on unsteady legs. The world spun around him, and for a moment the weight of all the pain he felt shoved him back down again. All Crowley wanted to do was weep and scream. 

Crowley wanted to die. He wanted to trade places with the child in his arms, give them the life they deserved because Crowley deserved none of it. After wiping his mouth of excess puke, Crowley tried standing up again. This time he was more successful, and he limped towards the church across from his home, the small body bouncing limply with every step. It felt uncommonly heavy and weighed him down. Crowley wondered if this was how Jesus felt, and then scolded himself for asking that. Asking questions was what got him here in the first place. Crowley reached the steps of the church and instantly felt his toes starting to burn. He adjusted the child in his arms and banged on the doors with a strength he didn’t know he had left. The clouds were dissipating in the sky, leaving the rest of the day to be clear and bright. 

A priest answered the knocking. “Yes, my child?” He asked kindly. 

Crowley shoved the body into the priests’ form, pointedly ignoring whatever else the holy man had to say. “This child died. Bury them with their family.”

“And what if their family isn’t dead yet?” Crowley raised an eyebrow as a black rat scampered into the church.

“They will be.”

Crowley sauntered away, snapping his fingers and letting the door slam shut in the priests’ face. He stopped at the edge of the last step, looking towards the sky as he took a deep, sobering breath in. He couldn’t get this emotional. It would set off too many alarms in Hell and surely Hastur would be asking questions, questions Crowley really did not want to answer. But more than that Crowley couldn’t afford to get emotional because that meant he was getting attached to humans. He tried not to, he knew that every single one of them was destined for death after about one hundred years or so, but it was so  _ hard _ . It was hard because Crowley saw the way that humans survived their way through every trial and tribulation that was thrown their way. He wanted to be that strong, to be that resilient. Humans were fascinatingly heroic. How couldn’t Crowley get attached?

It was his ultimate downfall, in the end, as Crowley tried to push down every little bit of feeling way down deep. The sky was a bright blue now, the dark clouds were to the west following Pestilence. Crowley wondered how many more villages were marked for death. For a moment he thought about snapping his fingers and appearing wherever they were, taking whatever steps were necessary to ensure Pestilence was gone for at least a century. But the rats were already in London, and Crowley didn’t think he had enough power or imagination to do what needed to be done. So he stood there on the church steps, letting the burning sensation scorch the balls of his feet into the very nerves of his being. Crowley bit his tongue to keep from crying out. Everything hurt. He just wanted a jug of wine and his bed with the intention of getting so piss drunk he couldn’t feel a damn thing. 

“Oh, ye sinful mortals!” A thick-accented voice announced from a few feet to the left of Crowley, and it sounded important enough that it caught his attention. “Full of transgressions and wickedness! Do ye not see the error of yer ways? Do ye not see the evil that has spread across this land?” 

Crowley scoffed at the irony of that statement. Of course, they didn’t. The rats seemed innocent enough as they made their way towards the food sources.

“God will abandon thee, mark my words! ‘Tis already began! A plague shall cometh upon this land and take yer wee babes! Just as Eve had been tempted by the Serpent of Satan, so too have you been tempted by sin! The Devil has watched you, marked you as his own. Soon ye shall meet yer maker, and just as he hath renounced Lucifer so too shall he renounce thine wicked ways. Harlots shall have their breasts flayed, murderers shall have their hands baked and boiled and fried, sodomites shall be put on a spit and roasted until their genitals fall off.” 

There would have been a time where Crowley would have seriously considered interrogating this man to see if he wasn’t, in fact, a demon. But the fact of the matter was that Hell still hadn’t caught up with the new tortures of the modern medieval times, and they were very much still reverting to the old torment and agony of the past few thousand years. Crowley was sure that the Bible still held an accurate account of how they intricately pulled apart each of their victims, and he’d even heard tell of an Italian book that described the whole business quite accurately. Aziraphale would have probably recited the passage if he was here. Crowley would have let him too, smiling softly all the while. He missed Aziraphale’s voice, that much was true, and if he asked Crowley to curse an entire field of cows or burn a couple of barns down just for the fun of it Crowley would do it, no questions or hesitations, but the man who stood there with a book in his right hand and a vial in his left seemed oddly persuasive. He was as good looking as any other human around them, and the small crowd that had gathered around the church seemed to hang on his every word like Crowley was. 

“You there!” The man pointed at Crowley. It made sense that he was the oddball out. He was far enough from any other person that he couldn’t be mistaken for the one to his right, and he was dressed the most eccentrically. Humans hadn’t really learned fashion yet. Crowley could wait until they did. He couldn’t deny that he loved attention. He was a demon, it was in the job description, after all. Must be an attention-seeking drama queen. Serious inquiries only. But suddenly Crowley wanted to shrink into his snake form and slither away. Maybe find one of those rats and swallow it whole. It still felt like he was holding the dead child; the weight of the body still pressed into his ribcage delicately. He’d been so afraid of breaking something, a finger, perhaps, or the fragile clavicle. Crowley’s entire frame shook with the pangs of desolation. The air felt thin around him, and his vision was beginning to blacken. “Do ye allow God into yer home, boy?” 

“Not if I can help it,” Crowley whispered. His feet were burning at an excessive rate. An alarm went off in the back of his head reminding him that he was still on consecrated ground. Crowley stepped onto the street, but he didn’t feel any relief from pain. Maybe the torrid temperature of his feet masked the pain of his hips and lower back, but Crowley had a hard time focusing on anything else now. He grumbled under his breath and started for home. 

“That’s yer problem!” The man exclaimed, grabbing Crowley’s shoulder and effectively holding him in place. A demonic miracle could easily free him, but Crowley was too emotionally exhausted to do much other than wallow in pity for the dead child. A vial was presented in front of his face. The liquid inside was a transparent brown. “Do ye know what this is, son?” 

“Uh… snake oil?” Crowley pondered unhelpfully. 

The man shook his head and smiled knowingly. “Theriac. It’ll absolve all your sins and all your mortal pain.”

Crowley smiled menacingly, white teeth in fierce, sharp points. “All of my sins, you say?”

“All of ‘em. God’s guarantee.” 

“What if I ran away when someone needed me most?”

“Forgiven!”

“What if I couldn’t save someone from dying?” 

“The Lord, Our God, and his Son see yer remorse and are ready to pardon ye with theriac.”

“What if I fell in love, and the love was despicable in the Lord’s eyes?”

“Theriac can help with that! ‘Tis a cure-all.”

“What if I tempted an Angel of the Lord?” 

“Not possible,” replied the man, and he pressed the small bottle into Crowley’s hands. “But yes, my son, every single one of yer sins shall be accounted for, and yer slate shall be wiped clean. It can also, ah, help with the pain ye clearly have been having. Theriac can truly fix all the problems ye need it to. Three drops a day and ye shall be transported into a world of bliss. Lit’le drops ‘a ‘eaven, I call ‘em.” 

Crowley rolled his eyes and shrugged the man off, closing his fist around the vial as he limped home. His vision was a kaleidoscope of colors now, ranging from dark purple to a mutation of yellow and green, and opening the solid wood door was a monumental effort on Crowley’s part. The mattress, for all its lumps and wayward sticks of hay, looked like the best place to go, and Crowley sat down, putting his body weight against the stone wall. He closed his eyes and breathed through his nose for a while, calming his nerves and willing the bile in his stomach to not rise up his throat. 

“Little drops of Heaven, hm?” His voice sounded far away and reedy, but at least Crowley didn’t think he was going to throw up and decided to very slowly open his eyes. The glass vial was about the size of half his middle finger, which led Crowley to believe that the drug was either meant only for the rich and not very readily available, or that is was strong enough that this amount was to last for a long while. Either way, it was no concern of Crowley’s. He was a demon, after all, and a little economic upset here and there was good for his image down in Hell. Surely Hastur would appreciate some stolen goods. 

Everything was a sooty grey around him, save for the small rectangular patch of sunlight that resided in the middle of the room. That was his favorite spot in the summer. Crowley would often shimmer into his snake form and coil up there for an hour or two, soaking in the rays of the sun and feeling no pain. His snake form it seemed was not constantly plagued with horrible aches and pains that rendered him useless. It was especially bad today, and Crowley had a hunch that it was only going to get worse. 

Sometimes his pain was equatable to a mountain. It would tease him in valleys that cramped up his muscles until they reached a depression of relief, and it would continue like that until the hike began at the base of the mountain. Eventually, the pain would peak and leave Crowley blinking and dazed, breath whacked out of him as all of his energy went to not passing out. But the pain never stayed for long and sauntered back down, bringing blissful nothingness with each step. When it was a mountain day Crowley could get things done. It hurt like all Hell, and sometimes all he could manage was tossing out his chamber pot or meandering to the local pub for a pint, but it was enough that Crowley felt like he had done something productive that day.

But other days were plateaus. Plateau days consisted of Crowley staying in bed for hours, trying to remain perfectly still because the smallest movements would set off a torrent of suffering down every single muscle, every single nerve, every single bone. These days Crowley could do nothing but scream and cry because there was no relief. There weren’t thirty seconds where the pain decreased. It never got worse, mind you, but it never got better, and plateau days tended to last longer, becoming a plateau week. Crowley didn’t know which he preferred, to be honest.

Mentally Crowley was all over the place. There was never a benchmark system in place to gauge how he was feeling on any given day. Generally, if he could find some good in the world though, he’d be better off. Sometimes seeing a young boy court a young girl was enough to force Crowley out of bed and out into the streets, and sometimes it took something monumental, something like a family taking in a stray dog or cat, for Crowley to remember to even  _ breathe _ . Demons didn’t breathe. That was why it was so important to Crowley that he  _ did. _ If he didn’t act like a demon, if he didn’t ask questions and did good things like Aziraphale, maybe She would still love him. Maybe She would take him in again, allow him to bathe in the yellow warmth of Heaven once more, allow him to build the galaxies he never finished so long ago. Crowley longed to soak in the endless blackened navy of space once more, to feel starlight on his tainted skin, to be able to float in creation itself.

That was why Crowley breathed. He hadn’t gone native as every other demon had thought.

But then there was the problem of Aziraphale, and Crowley knew no matter how many children he held after a scraped knee or a chipped tooth it would never be enough. A man loving a man was a sin in the bible, but this wasn’t the problem for Crowley. At least, it wasn’t all of it. A Demon falling in love with an Angel, however, was both unheard of and unwise. God would never have allowed for this type of error to be made, Crowley was sure. If anyone ever found out Crowley had loved Aziraphale since Eden, since the day they met… He shuddered on top of his harsh mattress, not daring to think about the consequences that would befall them both. God could never accept Crowley for soiling one of Her own children, Her own flesh and blood. Because Crowley had cruelly felt compassion for Aziraphale he would never be able to finish his life’s work, never be accepted into Heaven. 

It hurt him to think about it. It hurt him like a fiery whip on his back, lashing and lashing and lashing until his skin was broken and bleeding. It hurt him like the pool of sulfur he sat in for a million years never could. That pain was burning; Crowley could get used to burns because they were slow and familiar and he still had that sensation to this day. But knowing that God would never accept him for loving Aziraphale, for loving the purest creature ever constructed… It hurt Crowley unexpectedly. Just when he thought everything was over, that he didn’t have to deal with Aziraphale anymore, that he could finally mend his mangled heart, Aziraphale did something stupid like come looking for him or ask for help, and Crowley would come running. He would always run towards Aziraphale. He ran from everything else. 

Tack that on as another sin. Being a coward. 

Crowley hoped theriac would offer some sort of alleviation on both fronts, but he doubted it. Nothing in the past had worked. He’d traveled to the far East sometime in the 300’s to seek out a new form of medicine. Bones were inserted into special parts of the body and it was supposed to get rid of the pain. It was called acupuncture and it didn’t work for Crowley, so he slinked back to England in a worse mood than he’d been in previously. He had dabbled in daily exercise as well, but that just made his symptoms worse in the long run. 

Aziraphale truly had been a welcome distraction. When he was around Crowley could forget about his pain and he could smile and pretend as if Aziraphale loved him back. Aziraphale couldn’t love him back, of course, and Crowley knew this, but it was still nice to pretend for a moment that he did. But Aziraphale had been gone for four years now, and without the guiding light of his smile, Crowley was writhing around in complete anguish. Theriac had to do something. Crowley simply couldn’t stand it anymore.

A distorted version of himself in the curve of the glass bottle reflected back at him while Crowley uncorked the top. An overwhelming smell perforated across the room, sweet notes of cinnamon and lavender followed by stale, nauseating waves of what Crowley assumed was an essence of rotting animal carcass. He eyed it from the top and was surprised to see that the liquid inside wasn’t brown at all, rather it was the color crimson, almost blood-like. Crowley liked red things and smiled at the comforting hue.

He leaned back against the cold stone wall, shifting a feather pillow upwards for his lower back. He relished the coolness against his shoulder blades as he lifted the bottle to his lips. Two or three drops, that was all he needed, and his sins would wash away like the tide. Two or three drops and Aziraphale could start to see him as Crowley wanted to be seen - a creature wanting of love. He let a small stream enter his lips before putting the cork back on the bottle. Demons were apt to ruin all good things in life, taking too much when they ought not take any at all. Crowley didn’t want to be a demon. He had to show self-restraint. The taste of the medicine was horribly bitter, and he had half a mind to spit it out across his bed.

Birds sang outside, completely oblivious to what had just happened an hour or two prior. Crowley wondered if they would be safe, or if the plague extended to wildlife as well. The rats Pestilence let loose didn’t seem to have any outward symptoms, so maybe that was just a physical symbol for Pestilence, a marker of sorts, perhaps. Crowley didn’t pretend to know all the answers, and he was too worn-out to go and figure it out. So he laid there, itching with anticipation. Theriac wouldn’t work instantly, he knew that well enough, but it was a little disappointing to not have automatic relief. He closed his eyes against the greying sunlight. He didn’t want to see the sun ever again, or, at least, not until this ‘pandemic’ was over and done with. Even then Crowley didn’t want the world to be bright and wholesome and  _ good _ . The humans deserved nothing but wellness and heaven on Earth. After all, that was what She wanted for them even if they had been cast from Eden. Crowley viewed the humans first hand, knew how hardships could smack them clean off their feet, how one word could send their world crumbling into decaying dust. The Almighty had never seen that, not up close. It was different, being far away. Even Crowley could admit to some sort of emotional constipation towards a disaster if he wasn’t there for it. He thought it was a little unfair of God to have the world be so bright and cheery when She was just going to kill everyone the next day.

Why bother with hope, then? There wasn’t a point if everyone was going to die.

Aziraphale had told him a while back why hope was such an integral part of human lives. They sat in a hut in the Middle East in a year that blew past Crowley like the sandy wind. He’d worn a dress back then, too. Something bad must have happened; vaguely he remembered tears running down his dusty cheeks. Aziraphale might have lifted his thumb up and brushed the wet drop away. That was all Crowley remembered, and he mourned the lost answer. 

His hands twitched his lap, spasming with pain one last time before-

_ Oh. _ Crowley thought, pupils blown wide as the drug hit his system.  _ So  _ this  _ is what it feels like. I feel nothing. _

It was  _ divine _ . 

Crowley suddenly felt sluggish and wonderful and absolutely blessed. He still felt empty, but it had changed from this bottomless pit of fear and anxiety to something that he wanted to be swaddled in forever. The blackness around his soul felt like velvet, soft and smooth. It was familiar. Was God touching him again? Was She allowing Crowley back into her heavenly light? It should have scared Crowley, it should have, despite it being the one thing he’d ever truly wanted. But it didn’t. He just lay there, his eyes wide open now, heart blissfully thumping a sort of slow waltz, a dumb grin painted on his thin pale face. All he could feel was a ripple of serenity. It started deep in his stomach, a little below the belly button, and it traveled up his spine and down his joints, replacing the once unbearable pain with absolute oblivion.

The high could have lasted for days on end or been as short as an hour, truthfully Crowley couldn’t tell you. He was content with just breathily giggling to himself whenever he squirmed around on the mattress. It felt nice to be painless, felt nice to have his arms be arms and his legs be legs, and it felt nice to have his mind free of any distressing thoughts. The dead child no longer seemed so relevant to Crowley. He didn’t care. It was so far away from him, in a locked door three thousand miles down. He would have to trek through dry deserts and monsooning jungles to reach that memory, and Crowley couldn’t bring himself to agonize over it. Theriac made him  _ happy _ , made him sinless. Why should he jeopardize that for some kid? 

The heavy euphoric feeling stayed low in Crowley’s stomach, pulsating throughout him every few seconds. It felt like he was floating. Crowley laughed once more, blinking tears out of his eyes. Was this what floating on clouds felt like? After so long of being denied the sky, being denied the space for his wingspan to stretch out, Crowley had forgotten. Hell was small and cramped, and if there had been a place big enough for Crowley to stretch out his wings he hadn’t found it yet. Crowley missed the sky. He missed the vast blueness of Heaven where there was always enough room, enough light, enough laughter. 

For the first time since he Fell, Crowley could remember what it was like to be  _ loved _ . The man outside the church was right. Theriac really was a cure-all. God, in this one graceful moment, had allowed for Her light to reach Crowley. That’s what it felt like, anyway. He didn’t feel any fear or anxiety. Everything from the past four years, from Aziraphale leaving him in a huff to Pestilence slinking into town, none of that phased Crowley in the slightest. He could kiss whoever conceived this nirvana-like medicine. 

After a while, though it hadn’t been long enough for the high to have faded away too much, Crowley suddenly felt sleepy. It had crept up on him the minute his brain soaked in the chemicals he’d ingested, but he’d been too preoccupied with his feelings to sense it. Lethargy was a welcome stranger - Crowley couldn’t honestly remember a time where his mind or body had been thoroughly and completely exhausted. He slept because there was simply nothing else to do, and even though he’d trained his body and mind to shut down for months on end to pass the time, it wasn’t the same. He never got tired like the humans did. But this was such a human thing to feel, after all. The heaviness of the limbs, the molasses-like thoughts, the way his eyelids seemed to be glued down. Crowley supposed all of these feelings right now were artificial, the sleepiness included. If he hadn’t drunk some of the theriac he was sure that he’d feel as he always had. The complicated nature of this realization was dulled, a soft silk knife on his white skin. Crowley closed his eyes and let himself drift off, giving himself wholly and completely to the false sense of happiness theriac produced. 


	3. CHAPTER THREE

Crowley’s daily routine had changed immensely since the plague came to England. It went a little something like this:

At some point, he’d be woken up by inconsolable screams from his neighbors. Screams where his alarm clock now; it was how he knew he was still alive. He didn’t know if he wanted to be anymore. The stench of vomit and shit and death had flowed into his room, and no amount of sweet-smelling perfumes could stop Crowley’s nose from wrinkling and from his throat from convulsing. He knew he was alive, yes, but the screams played another integral part: It signified that someone other than Crowley had died. The screaming had started about a week after Pestilence had set loose the rats. The crying came soon after.

After waking up Crowley would turn onto his side and stare blankly at the wall in front of him, knees pulled up to his stomach, hands under his head as sort of a makeshift pillow. He listened to the people around him just sob and howl and plead. They begged the Lord to bring back their husband or their daughter or their mother. Sometimes they would bellow in fury because it was wholly unfair for their son not to breathe anymore, how dare he. Either way, Crowley concentrated on their emotions. If he was an Angel maybe he could have soothed their minds, but in the time of taking theriac there had been no change whatsoever in his celestial state. His wings stayed black, his eyes stained the putrid yellow bile he loathed. Crowley didn’t know what he expected. 

If the sun had yet to rise Crowley would just remain with his back towards the window. The night was not something he loved anymore. The stars just made his skin itch and the planets pulled at the nerves in his fingers. The dark sky beckoned Crowley, singing in his ears as sirens sing to sailors at sea. He couldn’t come back to them. Crowley couldn’t heed their call and it broke his heart. He took six more drops of theriac and shut his eyes tight. He still took the extra drops now, but it was more to stop the pain before it even began. The haze the drug gave his brain was pleasant, and Crowley had decided a long time ago that he’d rather live in this foggy state of security than anywhere else.

When the room was aglow with the golden light of day Crowley would turn his body over to face the window. His limbs constantly felt numb and heavy, as if someone had injected his veins with lead, and it took most of Crowley’s limited energy to find a comfortable spot again. He mainly laid in bed, viewing his limited world from the window. There might’ve been a time when he would’ve thanked past Crowley for positioning the mattress to where he could soak in the English life below him, but there were two very important reasons why he didn’t. 

One, he was a demon. Demons didn’t thank anybody for anything. It was against their nature. 

Two, the world was shit, and present Crowley had to deal with said shit, so he wasn’t very thankful anyways. 

Maybe the plague started a long time ago, like eighteen months or something. Maybe it had started three days ago, but all Crowley knew was that carts filled with dozens of emancipated corpses passed his line of sight daily. Bloated bodies, every single one of them, and all of them blackened by illness. They looked like inflated balloons filled with ink, fingers cut short from infection, puss-filled pockets dotting the victim’s face like a rouge. Sometimes a mouth was open and Crowley could see the rotting teeth that resided in the decaying gums, pushed up against one another like haphazard gravestones. 

That was what he looked at every day. It was his penance. If Crowley hadn’t Fallen, hadn’t tempted Eve into biting the apple, maybe he would have been spared this sight. But he didn’t. He had never atoned for his crimes against Her, and it was too late now to stop the mass pandemic plaguing the humans. This was all his fault. At this point he’d drink a little bit more of the theriac, aiming to numb his mind instead of his body. 

His body never hurt now. Crowley wondered if this is how he felt pre-Fall, with his nerves singing blessed songs of relief and his heart beating hotly to the tune. He really didn’t mind the heaviness of his limbs, he really didn’t. It gave Crowley another excuse to not venture out. 

A couple of months ago he might’ve wanted to. The lure of alcohol was always strong in Crowley and he often took the bait, being strung along like a fish on a string. But even the call of mistress mead hadn’t been enough to rouse him as of late, and Crowley remained lifeless on the mattress, his pupils always blown to biblical proportions, his Adam's apple always bobbing with laughter, his fingers always twitching with his artificial ecstasy. No alcohol could ever match the Heaven Crowley had drunk himself into. 

Besides, he might pass one of those carts of corpses. 

Staying in bed was easier. Staying in bed didn’t require him to look at what he had caused.

The man who had originally given Crowley the theriac was still in front of the church, and it was nothing short of a miracle that his voice traveled into Crowley’s room three stories up. He preached every day about the will of God, about how it was the fault of sinners that the plague came to England. If they had been upstanding God-fearing people, he proclaimed, then their children would be decaying with black rot. If men had not lied with men, had not thought about men in the way they ought to think about women, then their mouths would not be expelling blood. If women would not have sex outside of marriage then their brows would remain blessedly cool. But everyone had gone against God’s will, and as such deserved all the suffering the wrathful Lord could produce. 

Crowley agreed. Around noon he usually swallowed two more drops when the haze of his mind started clearing. 

Theriac, proposed the prophet outside, was a moral curative. It would allow your body to reject all the sins you had committed. It was therapeutic for Crowley who had more sins scarred into his back than people still walking the Earth. Sometimes people would ask for a bottle, others would sob with the knowledge that their dead loved one would never be able to try and repent, and, oh, if only they’d known about this sooner. 

Voices were Crowley’s world, it was how he’d always stayed as safe as he did. It was now less about survival and more about staying sane. He didn’t think he could handle another million years alone with just his own thoughts to keep him company. When the family next door contracted the plague Crowley loathed the fact that he relished the sobs and the loud repulsive sounds of chunky vomit hitting the floor. He hated the fact that someone was dying, really he did, but at least it interrupted his train of thought for a while. 

Then the sun went down and the man outside the church went to wherever he went, and Crowley finished the bottle of theriac, miracling it full for a repeat in the morning, turned away from the window, and forced himself to sleep until the sun rose again. 

***

A dark world lay in front of Crowley. It smelled musty and small when he flicked out his tongue, yet when he stuck out his arms to feel the edges of creation there was empty space, which didn’t make sense. Closets and drawers were musty, small rooms, too, but not a place as large as this, where his footfalls echoed for miles and miles. 

It was very bewildering.

IT HAS BEEN QUITE A JOURNEY, HAS IT NOT, SERPENT OF EDEN? 

The voice reverberated along the non-existent walls, settling into Crowley’s eardrums. The way it sounded threw Crowley off guard, because, again, the space felt large, but the smell and closeness of sound suggested a three by two room.

“I am confused?” Crowley said. While the other person sounded near his ear his own voice carried on through the airwaves. 

KNOWING YOUR CURIOUS NATURE, I AM NOT SURPRISED.

“Am I in a big room or a small room?”

… WHAT?

“Well it’s a simple enough question, I don’t see why  _ both _ of us have to be confused.”

OUT OF ALL THAT I HAVE MET YOU SEEM TO BE THE ONLY ONE CONCERNED WITH THE SIZE OF THIS REALM.

“Oh, this is a realm, is it?” Crowley turned the corners of his mouth down and nodded his head appreciatively. “Very nice. Love the color. Big or small, though?”

I AM NOT SURE WHY THAT MATTERS?

Crowley frowned. “Because I’m confused. The sounds of my feet and voice echo, yet yours do not. My arms cannot touch a wall, but I’m picking up a musty smell which isn’t really a scent I get from big places.”

I… UM…

“D’you maybe have a measuring tool of sorts?” 

NO? LOOK, CRAWLY-

“ _ Crow _ ley.” He emphasized quite curtly, feeling the nothingness beneath his feet for a trap door or something. . 

YOU ARE VERY MUCH TRYING MY PATIENCE. 

“Tend to do that. Demon. Part of my MO. Now, please, back to the matter at hand.” 

YES. YOU ARE-

“Confused, I know. I’m also trying to decide whether the accent color of this realm should be a dark green or an eggshell white. ‘Cause pure white, well, it just doesn’t sit well with me. For obvious reasons.” 

WILL YOU PLEASE SHUT UP AND LET ME EXPLAIN WHERE YOU ARE? WHY ARE YOU EVEN TRYING TO FIGURE OUT A COLOR SCHEME? AREN’T YOU MORE CONFUSED AS TO WHY YOU’RE HERE IN THE FIRST PLACE?

Crowley shrugged. “I’ve been lots of places unwillingly. Though, ‘course, Aziraphale usually makes those sorts of calls. That’s how we ended up in London. I have to keep tabs on him, you know. If I don’t he could die.” 

THE IRONY OF THAT STATEMENT IS NOT LOST ON ME.

“Nor me.” Crowley had taken a liking to walking around the realm, moving his hands out in front of him like a blind man. “And color schemes are just nice. Have to keep the imagination shar- oh look! A door!” His left hand closed around a round knob, and he pulled as hard as he could until it opened to whiteness. 

I CANNOT BELIEVE THIS. 

“Neither can I, green doesn’t go with white. My entire plan is ruined.” Crowley moaned remorsefully, stepping into the unknown. 

***

The world came back to him slowly and then all at once. It felt like having his head held underwater with his nose smacked against rough coral. Crowley’s eyes burst open and he bolted upright, sucking in about eleven deep breaths before daring to grasp any other sensation around him. 

“Nice of you to join the living.” A familiar voice - an unamused familiar voice - folded its way into the rough tweed of Crowley’s ragged breathing. 

“A-zi-ra-pha-le.” His own vocal cords were a ragged mess and words were chopped up pieces of glass, but he managed. Crowley looked over at him, a deep smoldering frown enveloping his features. “What’re you…  _ Where _ were you… Just… Why?”

Aziraphale’s own brows were furrowed, hands and eyes more preoccupied with the hem of his shirt than with Crowley. “Imagine my astonishment when Gabriel came to me in the middle of the night two days ago to tell me that I’m no longer needed on Earth due to my Demon counterpart dying. Then imagine, if you would be so kind, dear, me traveling back to England to corroborate this rumor only to hear that you haven’t been seen in  _ two years _ . Finally, imagine me coming into this hole you call home to see you blown up like a bloody balloon! All yellow and waxy, heat radiating off of your stomach like some hellish furnace. Do you think you can imagine that, Crowley?” 

Swallowing was very difficult. “I think I can manage, yes.”

“ _ Sssplendid. _ ” If Crowley didn’t know any better he would’ve thought that Aziraphale hissed. Properly hissed. “Care to tell me why I had to miracle you a new liver?”

Crowley looked down at the floor. “You didn’t have to. Could have done it mysel-” 

“No. No, you bloody idiot. No, you couldn’t have.” Suddenly Aziraphale was knelt on the floor in front of Crowley, icy fury frozen into his angelic features. There seemed to be eyes all over his skin, each one piercing into Crowley’s soul. No matter where he looked there was no escaping this horribly intimate, scarily close gaze. Crowley’s skin itched. “You couldn’t have miracled  _ anything _ in your state. You were  _ dead _ . I had to  _ revive you _ . Don’t you  _ dare _ try and tell me you had it all under control. You owe me more than that.” 

“I-”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “If the next words out of your mouth are anything but ‘I’m deeply and terribly sorry for scaring you, Aziraphale,’ or an explanation, I swear on all that is Holy I will smite you where you lay.” 

Crowley took another deep breath. The feeling of being underwater had lessened, but his nose still ached terribly. He wondered if asking Aziraphale to miracle it better would be a tad overkill. “I’m sorry, Aziraphale.”

His eyebrow raised. “For?”

“Scaring you.” 

A small hint of a smile formed on Aziraphale’s pink lips, but it was never fully formed. Crowley watched him nearly deflate with relief. “Well alright, then. I don’t forgive you yet, but I’m glad to know you’re still capable of showing remorse.” 

Crowley sneered slightly. “Always happy to help, Angel.” 

The sounds of the night were a nice grounding tool. It was full of empty wind and singing reeds from the landscaping job outside. The stars were bright; Crowley could distinctly make out the North Star a little ways to his left, spreading its brilliant guiding light to the lost souls on Earth. Crowley stared at that for a while, not really sure what to say to Aziraphale.

He couldn’t tell him the truth. Aziraphale wouldn’t stand for Crowley very deliberately trying to kill himself. There would most certainly be a lecture involved, all business-like and curt, because when Aziraphale got too emotional he shut down. Heaven had to have had a part in that, must’ve, because Crowley remembered how empathetic Aziraphale had been in Eden. Any other Angel would’ve told Adam and Eve to kindly fuck off and probably killed Crowley right then and there because any sensible Angel would have realized that was the  _ logical  _ thing to do. Aziraphale was all emotions, and while Crowley thought that is what an Angel ought to be, he’d rather not deal with feelings at this point in time. 

The theriac must have still been in Crowley’s system, but just barely. He couldn’t remember the last time he had felt something close to the anxiety he was feeling now. He cleared his throat. The darkness was congesting his airway; a thick chain constricting his neck. He needed to say something, anything, before Crowley started to freak out. 

“Two years?” 

“Hm?”

“You said that no one has seen me in two years?” 

“Well, yeah, roughly.” 

Crowley kept his eyes trained on the North star. “Has the fashion changed much? Am I dreadfully out of style?”

The sound of creaking wood reached his ears. Aziraphale must have pulled the chair from the desk towards the side of the bed. Crowley knew full well that theriac dulled the world around him. He wondered what other things he had missed. “Why is that your first concern?” 

“I’m a man of upkeep, Angel. I have to know what’s in and what’s out. I can’t be seen in public if my dress is two years too old. I’d be the laughing stock of the town.” 

“There’s not much of a town left to laugh at you.” Aziraphale pointed out.

The guilty pit in Crowley’s stomach dug deeper into his intestines. He hoped it didn’t transfer onto his face. His hand twitched impatiently, moving towards the bottle of theriac. Crowley sweat with the effort of keeping his fingers pinned down in his lap. “Are you going to laugh at me?” 

“For wearing something out of style?” Aziraphale let out a low amused chuckle. “My dear, I’ve worn the same three suits for centuries now, I really don’t think I would have the right.”

“That’s fair,” Crowley nodded and yawned. He wanted to have a few drops of theriac and nod off, but it was unwise to do so with Aziraphale in the room. “Are you staying in London long?”

“Oh, I don’t know. It depends on you.”

One of Crowley’s eyebrows raised in shock. “In  _ me? _ Why would  _ I _ be a deciding factor in whether you stay or not?”

The chair creaked uneasily again. He wondered if the rats had somehow chewed their way through the door and were feasting happily on the wooden objects in the room. Crowley shuddered at the thought. “You really can’t think of a single reason why you wouldn’t be?” 

Crowley turned his back towards Aziraphale, curling his body in on itself; a sort of defensive mechanism he’d picked up from his time as a snake. A snake’s body language was easier to read than a human. Snakes didn’t have four extra tubes of blood and bone to maneuver into an emotion as well as extra appendages on the face. If a snake was small and coiled, fangs bared and tail shaking, it meant to stay away. While at the moment Crowley didn’t have any of those things he hoped that Aziraphale would get the message anyway, but just in case he was feeling particularly thick today Crowley would push him towards the direction he wanted him to go in. 

“I wasn’t a reason last tim-”

“You weren’t  _ dead _ last time.” Aziraphale snapped quickly. “Can’t even leave you alone for six bloody years…” 

“Excuse me?” Crowley pushed himself up so he leaned heavily on the stone wall. It was cold against his back and grounded him. His hair reached down to the middle of his back, but the bulk of his he positioned over one shoulder. He stared at the space in front of him, above the crude inlay of the stove. “Don’t act as if I’ve never had to come and save you! There were plenty of times where we hadn’t seen each other in twenty years - twenty years, Aziraphale! - and in that time you never learned self-perseverance. I’ve always had to jump in at the last moment to make sure you weren’t discorporated.”

“Stop being a child and look at me, Crowley. If we’re going to fight let’s fight like adults.”

He refused. The command came from a child of God, and Hastur would be mad if Crowley obeyed. That was what he told himself, at any rate.

“Fine. I’ll walk out. I’ll walk out and you’ll never see me again. Is that what you want?” 

Silence. 

“You’re insufferable. I don’t even get a bloody thank you.”

“Who said I wanted to be saved?” His tone of voice was grey as the sea and as cold as the flagstones behind him. 

This wasn’t true, of course. Crowley, more than anything, wanted to be saved. But he wasn’t allowed to be. Even if there was a slim possibility of grace being bestowed on him once more, Crowley wasn’t sure he wanted to let Aziraphale join him for the ride. It could destroy whatever tiny friendship had started to burn amongst the wet kindling they’d collected together over the years. There were things that Crowley didn’t want Aziraphale to know. Like the fact that the last two years had been a long and over-dramatic suicide attempt. Or the fact that the plague was his fault. The anxiety of his fears was a little weightier now. If Crowley didn’t want to dissolve into a mess of panic he’d need the theriac soon. He would need God’s Forgiveness again. 

“You did.” 

Crowley scoffed and rolled his eyes. “I’ve never said that, Angel. You’re lying.” 

“I’m an Angel. I can’t lie.” There was silence for a second or two after the harshness of Aziraphale’s voice found refuge in the corner of the room, and Crowley felt Aziraphale’s hand touch his. He pulled away sharply and hissed at the unwanted contact. Well, it wasn’t necessarily unwanted, but it was nice and Crowley decidedly did not deserve nice things. “What happened while I was gone, dear?” Aziraphale was soft now. Crowley didn’t deserve that either. 

“I’m not going to tell you.” Crowley spat. The words of distrust tasted bitter on his tongue. He wanted them out of his body, out of his mind. He wanted Aziraphale  _ gone _ . He wanted to drown in the lectures from the window, to suffocate from the guilt that was slowly wrapping around his neck. 

Aziraphale seemed to recoil at those words; the Holy presence of his hand retracted back into his lap. Crowley let out a breath. “What else do I need to say to get you to leave? I’ll say it. If I need to say that I-”

“I don’t want you to say anything because it wouldn’t matter. I’m staying in London for the time being. Clearly you’re not of sane mind, and if my oblivious heart remained ignorant when I first saw you it is not anymore. You need  _ help _ , Crowley.”

Crowley crossed his arms and scoffed. “I don’t need anything but to be alone. You’ve no idea what you’re talking about.” 

“If it’s a matter of sewing clothes or making cheese you’d be correct,” Aziraphale agreed. The tones of his voice soothed Crowley immensely; it was almost better than being high. Almost. At least when he was high Crowley didn’t have to think, didn’t have to be careful, and certainly didn’t have to bother with existence. “But when it comes to you I should like to hope I know a bit about the subject.” 

“I’ve changed a lot during the past six years,” Crowley pointed out, not wanting to get too chummy at the moment. 

“Oh, undoubtedly! But so have I, and we’ve both changed monumentally since Eden. Still, some basic characteristics have remained on our persons since the very beginning. I can’t help but notice you’re still a particularly bad liar. And it doesn’t help that you wear your heart on your sleeve. You say you don’t want help. You want to be left alone, yet your mannerisms and tone of voice suggest the opposite.” 

“I don’t know what you want me to do. If you’re expecting a day-by-day account on what’s happened since you left you should just leave now.”

“I don’t want any of that, you daft demon.” Crowley noticed there was a shadow of a hand just ghosting above his hairline. His eyes traveled up and he caught a glimpse of gold as Aziraphale drew away once more. He was wearing those stupid rings that had been bestowed upon him as an Angel of Heaven. Crowley frowned deeply. Had he also had rings when he was encased in Her Love? Did they sit upon his fingers, marking his vessel as one of deep Grace and Understanding? Did they burn off him as he plummeted towards Hell? Crowley cleared his throat.

“Well then what  _ do  _ you want?” 

“I want you to accept my help. Don’t push me away. Let me stay here until I feel safe leaving you alone again.”

Crowley’s mouth moved wordlessly as he tried one last time to get rid of Aziraphale. Finally, he settled on, “I really just think this vessel had a minor complication, Angel. It wasn’t- I mean,  _ I’m _ not trying to-”

Aziraphale’s voice was deadpan when he interrupted Crowley. “Do not insult my intelligence, dear. I know a suicide attempt when I see one.”

“Fine!” Crowley screamed in frustration, heart racing fast as he threw his hands up in the air. He hated losing. “Fine! You win! You can stay! I accept!” 

“Splendid! It’s all going to be tickety-boo!” Aziraphale smiled and clasped his hands together in delight. 

_ “Wonderful, _ ” Crowley grumbled. He gave a final grimace and turned his back to Aziraphale once more, mumbling something about sleeping before willing his brain to shut down. 


	4. CHAPTER FOUR

Something warm hit Crowley square in the forehead; the inside of his eyelids seemed basted with red blood. Lamb’s blood? He’d been around for Moses and the who Egypt fiasco. He understood the significance of red. Purity. Bravery. At that time it was quite literally meant to be taken as you were not to be murdered. But the point of the matter was that red was very much Her color. Maybe it was Her color because she fancied red lips in the evenings. Maybe it was Her color because a good red wine was her favorite drink. Maybe it was just a coincidence, but either way, Crowley felt, at least for a second, fully loved. God had finally accepted him. Theriac had worked.

And then he opened his eyes and realized his eyes were red due to the sunlight. It explained the warmth, too. Or a little bit of it. Altogether Crowley felt much too stuffy for his liking. It felt as if someone had locked him in a very small room with a pile of lit coals to keep him company. His spirits sunk as he looked down at his hands. Shaky, yellow, boney, and more claw-like than he would ever care to admit. The nails were still curved and blackened, still that shade of deadly black that Crowley loathed. 

The sound of rustling paper reached his ears in small increments. Crowley moved his eyes to the source of the sound. It seemed like there were three copies of everything around him. Three desks, three pairs of his own feet, three chairs beside his bed, and three angels reading three leather-bound books. It made him quite nauseous. 

“Ngk,” Managed Crowley, weakly pushing himself up into a sitting position. “W’en you’d get here?” He asked Aziraphale. He couldn’t rightly remember what had transpired the past few… months, was it? It felt like he’d been asleep for at least half the year. Felt like he could sleep for another half year if he was being completely honest. Crowley still felt obliteratingly tired. 

“Three days ago,” Aziraphale replied curtly, licking one of his fingers so he could flip a page easier. Crowley watched the pink dart in and out of his mouth so quickly it was near serpentine. It left him parched. He let his eyes travel, much more slowly this time so he didn’t further upset his stomach, to his end table. There was nothing on it. No dark brown bottle. No relief. He looked back at Aziraphale who was holding it in one hand. He didn’t bother looking up from his book. “Looking for this?”

“Y-yeah, actually. It’s-”

“Theriac. I know.” At this point Aziraphale put the book down on his lap, dangling the vile in front of Crowley, who, in vain, tried to snatch it back. “I was curious as to exactly how you managed to induce liver failure. A common cause is old age, but we both know that doesn’t happen to us, nor do genetic mutations, and those don’t lend itself to suicide attempts anyway. You and I have to try to die, and illness doesn’t just happen to us unless we force it. So alcohol, then? It could have been a possibility until I realized how unusually barren your home is. No wine or liquor bottles anywhere to be seen, and I know you haven’t been out in two years. Besides, last night you weren’t drunk. When you’re drunk you’re uncommonly open about things. Then I found this bottle. I know how organized you are, dear, you wouldn’t ordinarily leave this lying around. Didn’t you tell me once, ‘A place for everything and everything in its place’?”

Crowley rolled his eyes. He felt bothersome heat rise to his cheeks as he bit his tongue. “I told you. I changed.”

Aziraphale nodded, though not unkindly. Like the nod a mother gives her child when he’s made an excellent point but hasn’t grasped the initial concept. “But you’re a stickler for cleanliness, dear, that’s not ever going to change. Anyway, during my years on Earth, I’ve quite taken a liking to learn about all sorts of medicine. It’s a lot better than war, I assure you, and so much more scholarly than sword fighting. It took me until a couple of hours ago, but I finally realized that you’ve been drugging yourself - quite heavily, might I add - for two years straight. It’s the only possible explanation I can think of that includes you being a shut-in and liver failure.” 

Crowley stayed silent, not sure what he wanted to say. It turned out fine. Seemed Aziraphale had plenty on his mind regardless. 

“Do you know how utterly selfish you are?” 

“Well, I’m a demon. Not sure what you-” 

“Nope. We’re not doing your aloof demon today, Crowley. It’s not happening. Keep your snide, snarky comments to yourself because I will not hear any of it. Do I make myself clear?”

“Crystal,” Crowley managed. He stopped looking towards Aziraphale, stopped gazing into those lovely blue eyes that conveyed agitated concern. Crowley didn’t deserve to be stressed over. He _was_ a demon, even if Aziraphale didn’t want to hear it, and demons weren’t creatures anyone should care about. It was made very plain to Crowley that God had shut him out. By association, Aziraphale should too. But he hadn’t. He was here, a face full of fury but eyes dripping with careful nervousness. There was a lump in Crowley’s throat. He swallowed, but it didn’t go away. He pinched the skin on the back of his hand to distract himself from the guilt. There was a vile snake in his stomach slithering up towards the opening of Crowley’s mouth. Saliva dripped from his teeth and pooled on his tongue. 

It seemed the sun that had woken him up was hiding behind grey clouds. The blue sky peaked through patches, casting blessed little rays of light upon the barren streets below. Crowley couldn’t remember an early morning where there wasn’t the hustle and bustle of humans down below. There weren’t any church bells ringing, nor scents of bread being baked, or dust being kicked up by impatient mothers dragging their children down the road. It was lonely. Life was empty. Crowley gagged on the notion. 

“Selfish, that’s what you are. Do you know how many poor souls could have used that drug instead of you? In their hour of death when they were vomiting up black bile when all they wanted was a relief for a short hour or two… you denied them that. If a child cried out and nothing could be done for them and this,” Aziraphale shoved the vial into Crowley’s line of sight. “Was the answer, then their suffering is on you. I shouldn’t be surprised, though. You like making humans suffer, don’t you?” 

“It’ssssss not my favorite thing,” Crowley admitted. Aziraphale leaned back in his chair. 

“You must be more stupid than I originally thought.” A sigh came quickly after. Crowley looked at his hands. They were shaking slightly. “I am sorry, dear, truly I am. You know I hate being so cross towards you, but I need you to know the seriousness of your actions. It hasn’t just affected you or me, rather the entire ecosystem we find ourselves in.”

“Aziraphale?”

“Yes?”

“Ngk… I feel funny.” It was weird, confessing that he wasn’t okay. Crowley always had an air of health about himself around Aziraphale. At first, it was necessary for his job; showing weakness in front of an Angel would give them the upper hand and very likely discorporate Crowley into an unpleasant boardroom meeting. He shuddered at the thought of a lecture coming from Hastur again. It was a no brainer, really, to tell Aziraphale everything was fine and fresh and dandy even if Crowley felt anything but. 

He wasn’t sure when that all changed. He wasn’t sure when survival instincts turned into romantic notions, but it happened, and now he would shrug off physical and mental injury for the sake of seeing Aziraphale smile in relief. It was an absolute joy to see Aziraphale smile. He smiled with his whole face, eyes twinkling, skin glowing, the ends of his hair nearly floating in the thick of it all. Crowley rejoiced in the warmth of Aziraphale’s smile. It was almost like being in Her Grace again. So as far as Crowley was concerned, for Aziraphale’s sake, he was always fine, even when he wasn’t. 

“That’s called guilt, Crowley. That means you know what you’ve done is wrong.” 

“No, that’s not what I-” 

And then Crowley vomited. 

The wetness landed on his lap. He felt it on his skin which only caused panic to rise up further in him. He tried to get a deep breath in but he choked on the bile in his throat. A horribly strangled noise issued from his vocal cords.

“Oh, dear,” Aziraphale moved forward quickly, a bucket already miracled into his hands as he shoved it underneath Crowley. He continued to puke a barrage of beige and puss yellow and muted green. “It’s okay. Just let it pass. Don’t try and fight it.” Crowley felt Aziraphale gently grab the bulk of his hair and move it out of the way. His stomach convulsed again. “There we are. You’re doing great.” 

Crowley tried to shoot him a look of daggers and broken glass. He managed a weak grimace before sticking his head in the bucket again. His stomach felt like the ocean. The intestines were no longer solid tubes, rather sloppy waves that held no real purpose except to churn sewage further up Crowley’s esophagus. As he breathed he felt the tattered sails of his lungs only cast him out further away from the docks of relief. He must have made a noise or facial expression or something because Aziraphale patted his back tenderly.

“You needn’t breathe, Crowley, if it’s causing you pain. Don’t make this any harder than it needs to be.” 

He nodded in response, allowing his lungs to deflate. Emptiness overtook him in oxygen’s stead. Maybe that was fine. It gave Crowley something to focus on other than the fact that the world was spinning and the scent of vomit was rising steadily up his nostrils, both of which did nothing to quell the aquatic storm inside of him. It seemed, though, that he wasn’t going to puke anymore. It was entirely possible that there was nothing Crowley had left to expel. So he heaved for a couple more minutes and let Aziraphale run his knuckles up and down his bony spine until Crowley was sure he was done vomiting. 

Aziraphale helped to push him back up against the stone wall, running a thumb across Crowley’s sweat-soaked forehead. He frowned and Crowley copied him. “You’re worryingly warm. Have you contracted-?”

“No,” Crowley assured, his voice authoritative and finite. He willed the mess on his bed and legs away. By the time it was all gone black spots had taken over the majority of his vision, his head lolling to the side out of sheer exhaustion. “‘S not… that…”

“Don’t exert yourself, dear,” Aziraphale reminded him gently. “It’ll just make things worse.”

“I… know…” Crowley felt his eyes drift shut against his will. He blinked hard and fought against the blackness. He didn’t want to go back. He wanted to stay with Aziraphale, wanted to atone for his sins, wanted to beg for forgiveness on his knees as if Aziraphale were God and Crowley a lowly shepherd boy. But when he dug down for a miracle to fix himself, Crowley found his source to be empty. Whatever this was had used up the last of his power, and cleaning the mess on his legs had been the last demonic intervention Crowley had been able to perform. “‘Ziraphale?” Crowley whined and found himself reaching out to the blurry form in front of him. 

“Shh, Crowley,” Aziraphale pushed him back down. Suddenly there was a heavy tartan blanket tucked around Crowley’s emancipated and jaundiced body and a soft pillow beneath his sweaty head. “You need to rest and get better.” 

Crowley shook his head weakly. “No… Ple’se… You can… fix… th’s, righ’? Make... me... better?” He felt Aziraphale stroke his head again, and he tried to push against the coolness of the fingers. The cold was his anchor in a sea of Hellfire. 

“I can’t, dear, much as I would love to. I can’t risk Heaven knowing I’ve fixed someone like you, and, moreover, I’m not sure what to fix. Besides, after the scare you gave me because of the stupid decisions you’ve made, I do believe you might deserve what’s coming to you. Karma and all that.” Crowley couldn’t really make out Aziraphale’s face in his darkening vision, but maybe the lines on his face were meant to mean pity or sorrow or anger. He supposed it didn’t matter. Aziraphale was right. He didn’t deserve to get better.

Someone like him didn’t deserve to make someone like Aziraphale worry. 

As Crowley’s mind dissolved into oblivion once more, he loathed his cowardice. He loathed the fact that he couldn’t have killed himself years ago with a knife. He loathed the fact that he couldn’t have jumped off a cliff or a building and discorporated to Hell. He hated Hell, every single pitfall and every single room, but at least he wouldn’t have to look at Aziraphale’s angelic face for a while. Hastur wouldn’t give Crowley a body for a couple of decades. 

But Crowley had been a coward, and this was his punishment. 


	5. CHAPTER FIVE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> yes aziraphale uses the potent Mom Spit on crowley this chapter don't @ me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter four seemed a little short so i'm giving y'all a double update this month because i CAN

“Crowley.” 

A familiar voice called out a name, beckoned that person close to wherever it was. Was that his name? It sounded like it could be, but Crowley couldn’t really remember. He thought he had a different name, one that was less harsh and more rounded on the edge of the tongue. Crowley ignored it. A hand was placed on his shoulder and was shaking it slightly. He tried to swat the offending limb away, but he was uncoordinated enough to whereas his own hand landed on the left corner of the mattress, the back of it scratching against the cold stone wall.

“Crowley, dear, you have to wake up.” 

“Ngk…” 

“I’ve got to get fluids in you. I’m going to help you sit up now, okay?”

“Mmhmm…” 

“I’ll take that as an affirmation.” 

Unexpectedly and without warning, the hands moved underneath his shoulders and pulled him up. Crowley tried to move his arms again to get away whoever had hold of him. He was unsuccessful in a pacifist attempt to free himself; it only resulted in something wrapping tightly around his legs and waist. He panicked, hysteria rising through his belly and scattering up his throat, finally settling on his tongue in the form of a frightened scream. He tried to kick, but that only made matters worse. A hand firmly closed over his mouth, shushing him. Crowley bit at the skin, which released his mouth, and he started to scream again. This time the hands went over his cheeks, and his forehead was pressed to another’s. 

“Shh, Crowley. It’s me. It’s Aziraphale. Please calm down. It’s only me. I only want to help. Please, dear.”

Suddenly Crowley stopped. Maybe it was the tone of voice ‘Aziraphale’ used. He wasn’t sure exactly  _ who _ ‘Aziraphale’ was yet, and maybe he was supposed to be an enemy most foul, and maybe if Crowley opened his eyes he would be in the middle of an absolute shitshow of agony. But the voice sounded calm and cool and collected, and it anchored Crowley to reality when the word ‘dear’ was uttered. 

_ He _ was Crowley. Crowley was  _ his _ name. It hadn’t always been, but it was now, and it suited him better than the former name he had. That name had been lost with the sands of time and no one could remember it. Maybe She could, but She never had any intention of letting that name be uttered at any point in time. Sometimes Crowley would sit down with quill and ink and parchment and scribble out some semblance of the name he had been known by. It never came to him. No combination of letters were ever fruitful and Crowley lost faith that he would ever know what his name had been. 

Sometimes, though, he found the sliminess of his new name to be a soothing balm in the burning ambiguity of his life. It told him who he was. Crowley. Serpent of Eden. Demon. Unforgivable. That was easy to remember, so Crowley focused on that, and it calmed him down enough for the hands to sit him up fully. He tried to open his eyes and whimpered when he found them to be nearly glued shut. The Being Named Aziraphale shushed him once more, stroking his hair as a wet thumb moved across both of his eyelids, easing crust and dried tears off until Crowley was able to flutter his eyes open. 

“There we are. Hello, dear.” 

_ Dear _ .

Oh, that word sounded so Heavenly. Heavenly with a capital H. Crowley’s heart flittered whenever it was spoken. 

“Do you feel any better?” 

Crowley opened his mouth and stared at his legs. They were long like a snake and were wrapped around tightly in a beige blanket. He didn’t remember turning his lower half into a serpent.

“‘M not beige.” He replied. ‘Aziraphale’ raised an eyebrow. His hair was blonde - almost white- and Crowley could nearly recognize who he was. 

“You’re not… Oh! Oh, no,” ‘Aziraphale’ smiled softly, reaching to pull the blanket free from Crowley’s legs and tuck them back up to his chest. “I’m so sorry. That must have freaked you out.” Crowley shrugged in response, trying to act aloof and cool in front of this maybe stranger. 

‘Aziraphale’  _ did seem _ familiar to Crowley. It was almost as if he’d known him for his entire life. He wasn’t sure how long his life had been, but it felt achingly extensive and hopelessly lonely. Almost lonely. ‘Aziraphale’ looked at him with such a kind and warm regard that Crowley could only assume would come from years and years of friendship. But he couldn’t… Surely no one would want to be friends with a demon? ‘Aziraphale’ helped him drink water out of a wooden cup. Crowley coughed when he had finished and just stared at the man in front of him. 

“Do you know where you are?” 

Truth be told Crowley didn’t. His memories had a curtain in front of them and trying to pull them back just made his body hurt more. The last thing he remembered was sand. Crowley racked his brain for some sort of place with a desert. 

“Messsss’p’tema.” He slurred out, eyes half closing as he watched ‘Aziraphale’ frown worriedly, pressing a hand to Crowley’s forehead once again.

“No, dear, you’re in London.”

“Wot’s London?” 

“A town in England,” ‘Aziraphale’ said dismissively. He snapped his fingers and Crowley flinched at the sudden wetness on his sweaty brow as a cold washcloth was placed upon him. “Your fever’s too high. I’ll let you sleep for a couple more hours and see how you do, but I might have to get a tub of ice water set up.”

Crowley’s blurry vision tried to settle on the blueness of ‘Aziraphale’s’ eyes, tried to ground himself against the ever-present blackness of sleep. He reached out for something, anything to keep him awake. He didn’t like the darkness, he liked the light. The light was warm and inviting and it made Crowley feel safe. He registered that he hadn’t felt safe in a long time, and whoever this ‘Aziraphale’ person was was just enough of a bastard to help him get the security he needed in his life. 

‘Aziraphale’ looked at him with a soft expression as he grabbed Crowley’s hands and placed them back on his chest. His hands remained clasped over Crowley’s own and he only jerkily pulled away when Crowley looked down at them. “I can assure you that the thing you are searching for is long gone.  I’ve hidden it. I don’t think your demon nose could pick up its scent.”

“Wot’re you talkin’ ‘bout?” Crowley questioned breathlessly. It felt like his heart was going to burst out of his chest, and no matter how hard he tried to suck in a deep breath it always came back shallow and thready. ‘Aziraphale’ sighed, closing his eyes and shaking his now slightly bowed head. 

“Doesn’t matter. It’s best if you get some sleep. I’ll be here for you when you wake up.” 

Crowley shook his head weakly. He didn’t want to sleep. He didn’t, and yet his body wouldn’t listen to him. When he moved his skull around it felt as if his brain was soup, all hot and steaming and… oh, it _hurt_. The cloth on his forehead did little to stave back the heat that was radiating off of him. “‘Ead hur’s…” Crowley slurred. “I don’ ‘no’ w’o you are…”

The bright being beside him smiled gently. Crowley felt him push back a couple of locks of hair that found themselves nearly glued to the wet cloth. “I’m Aziraphale, Former Guardian of the Eastern Gate and your friend.”

“I don’...” Crowley sucked in a breath through his teeth and shivered tremendously despite feeling as if he was evaporating. “Have fr’ndssss… d’mon, me… fr’ndslesssss…” 

Aziraphale smiled softly; Crowley tried to mimic the action, but couldn’t get much farther than the tip of his lip quivering. “The fever’s making you delirious. You don’t know what you’re talking about. Please try and get some sleep, dear.” 

Crowley coughed as he inhaled another deep gulp of air, choking himself with the intensity of it all. “If you’re my fr’nd… will you ‘el’ kill m’self?” 

If Aziraphale ever answered him Crowley didn’t know, because everything was black within the next second.

***

In this instant, there was only an overwhelming need to vomit and nothing else. Crowley just squeezed his eyes shut as he spewed bile and stomach acid all over his chest, coughing and sputtering as he did so. Aziraphale was there as before, sitting him up and pressing a bucket into his trembling hands before miracling away the sick. It kept coming out until it didn’t anymore, and when Crowley finally felt stable enough he pushed the putrid bucket away and leaned against the stone wall. It was nice and cold and grounding enough for Crowley to open one eye slightly. 

“Sorry,” He offered in a whisper tone. Aziraphale waved him off unconcernedly as he stood up and grabbed the bucket, tossing the contents out the window and onto the street below. There was a fire in the stone hearth, logs crackling merrily as they disintegrated into ash. For the life of him, Crowley couldn’t understand why the wood was so happy. Death by fire was a horrible way to go. He knew that from experience. Crowley’s eyes trailed back to Aziraphale and noticed - not for the first time - how the light hit him. It was almost as if Aziraphale was an extension of the sunlight; Crowley wasn’t sure where the daylight ended and Aziraphale’s soft white curls began. His face radiated the elegance of the Almighty, a near sparkling sheen breaking out across his face. The blue eyes that Crowley had so desperately tried to stare into over the odd meal were near coruscating into spectacular gems.

Sometimes Crowley conveniently forgot that Aziraphale was an angel. 

Aziraphale had set the bucket down and was now tending to the fire, taking a long iron stick and poking at the logs. Crowley looked at the way his trapezius moved like an ocean wave. Forward and backward, forward and backward. They were almost perfect.

“You’re too tense in your shoulders.” Crowley pointed out, voice hoarse from the acid he threw up. Talking made him a bit lightheaded. 

“I’m carrying the weight of your infernal existence on them, aren’t I? It’s to be expected.” 

Crowley flinched back at the harshness of the words Aziraphale near spit out. The back muscles moved downward as a sigh issued from his lungs. Aziraphale turned his head slightly, already stuttering out an apology. “I’m sorry. That was dreadfully rude of me, dear. How are you feeling?” 

There was silence for a couple of seconds or so before Crowley realized he had to answer. “If I had theriac I’d be better, but all things considered, I’m fine.” 

Aziraphale suddenly went rigid, and if his shoulders had been tense before Crowley needed a new word for what they were now. The iron poker clattered to the floor. If Crowley had been a smarter demon he would have probably realized the severity that noise brought without. Aziraphale was  _ not _ clumsy, not when he had a purpose he needed to fulfill. Suddenly Aziraphale was looming over Crowley’s bedside, all shadows and fury and choler. He shoved a glass vial in Crowley’s face. Inside was the amber liquid Crowley craved, and his hands instantly started for it before Aziraphale pulled it back and now he was fewer shadows but more outward disgust and Crowley thought he was going to puke again.

“You  _ insolent  _ little… I can’t believe you! After all I’ve told you. After all I’ve  _ done _ for you and you still-” Aziraphale shook his head and bowed towards the sky, hands clasped so tightly they had gone white, white like hot flames that Crowley wish would wrap around his throat and burn him. “My Lord, give me strength enough so that I do not strangle this _contumelious serpent_ in front of me-” He turned back to Crowley. “Am I not enough?” 

“What?” 

“You heard perfectly well. Am. I. Not. Enough?”

“Of course you are.”

“Then why do you act as though I am not?” 

“Aziraphale I mean this in the nicest way I can but honestly? What the fuck do you mean?”

“You don’t need theriac to get you through your problems. You have me. We are  _ friends _ , Crowley, loathe am I to admit it, but we are, and I would think you would have enough common sense to come to me when you are having problems. But you never do and you turn to drugs and ask me to help kill you.”

Crowley rolled his eyes and scoffed. “We’re not friends. Friends don’t fuck off the face of the earth for six years after a mutual disagreement. And I never asked you to help kill me.”

“You most certainly did! I’m sure you’ve forgotten what happened when you were delirious, but you asked if I was your friend, if you would help me kill yourself.” 

“Well there’s your problem,” Crowley crossed his arms and looked out the window. “I wasn’t in the right state of mind. Normal me would never ask you to assist in my suicide.” 

“No,” Aziraphale agreed acidically. “Normal you would just get high for two years straight in a desperate attempt to overdose so you wouldn’t have to worry about seeing me if you failed.” 

“Which I did.” 

“Which you did. Congratulations.” Aziraphale pocketed the theriac. “There’s a child in the apartment under yours that’s suffering dreadfully. I’m going to go give his mother the theriac. Am I going to have to restrain you or are you going to let me help someone who needs this more than you?”

Crowley suddenly remembered the child that had died by Pestilence’s hand. He remembered in that instant the strong urge to do the utmost to protect them from death. He quite literally would have done anything to save them. He would have outed himself as the infernal being he was, would have given up all his worldly possessions, his powers, would have even gone so far as to denounce his friendship with Aziraphale if it meant this child could be spared. It probably wouldn’t have done much good anyway, but it would’ve given the child a couple of nights at home surrounded by love and reverence. 

If the child downstairs had to endure the same fate, Crowley knew it was his duty to do whatever he needed to ensure they knew some semblance of peace. He closed his eyes defeatedly, a hiss of air escaping his lips as his stomach clenched in pain. “Take it. I won’t stop you.” 

Fingers suddenly traced his scalp, scratching softly notes of affection that Crowley wished were something more than platonic. “Thank you, Crowley. You’re an awfully nice person, no matter what you tell yourself.”

“Ngk,” Crowley argued and turned on his side as Aziraphale pulled the blanket up to his shoulders, letting his hand rest there for a moment. Crowley basked in the loving warmth Aziraphale exuded. 

“Try and get some sleep, dear. You’ll feel better once you wake up.” 

And, just like that, Crowley drifted off.


	6. CHAPTER SIX

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is my favorite chapter of the crowley part:))))) get ready for aziraphale in april it's gonna fuck y'all up

Gravel crunching under his feet should have been much louder, Crowley thought, as he marched along the main town road. Right now it gave off this slightly softer crunch sound, whereas it was usually deafening to his ears and made conversations all the more difficult. The sky was also a weird grey-blue-purple tone. Crowley didn’t have a name for it, but Aziraphale would have. He was the artist out of the two of them. Crowley liked art, and he thought he had been rather good at it before he Fell, but now his hands flared with pain whenever he picked up a small tool like a quill or paintbrush. As such, he’d stopped paying attention to new colors and techniques and left that sort of thing up to Aziraphale. 

The Pardoner in front of the church was there, which in of itself was quite normal, but his head was much too small and narrow for the broad shoulders it set itself upon. He talked with a raven’s warble, his words coming out distorted and unintelligible. Crowley got the gist, though. Because of his numerous sins against humanity, against God in general, he was made to, quite literally, crawl on his belly like the serpent he was. Aziraphale could never love him because he was unlovable. He should have just killed himself all those years ago instead of wallowing in cowardice and self-pity. 

“Cow-ley! Cow-ley!” A child came screaming up to Crowley, clutching his legs as they breathlessly tried to utter his name. Crowley knelt down before them, taking their slightly chubby, pridefully sticky hands in his own and smiled kindly at them.

“Hello, little one. What’s the matter?” 

“Uh… um…” The child before him sputtered, biting their bottom lip as they tried to form a coherent sentence. 

“That’s okay. Sound it out. We’ve got time.” 

All of a sudden the child pulled their hands away from Crowley’s delicate hold. Their features went from cherub innocence to a mixture of disgust and haughtiness. Archaic gangrene slid over the chubby skin of their cheeks, forming pits of boiling black blisters all over their face. Yellow puss spilled out of their eye sockets and buboes littered their arms. They giggled, genderless cadences bouncing off the world with a nameless sky. It was cold. Crowley felt hopelessly cold as he fell backward in shock at the scene before him. “We haven’t got time. Time is up. You couldn’t save me.” 

Crowley shook his head quickly, squeezing his eyes tight against the monstrosity of sickness. He could feel the child slink closer, bulbous, swollen toes creeping upon his own feet. He whimpered with repulsiveness, flinching with the knowledge that he wasn’t afraid for the child, no, he was afraid that this would tarnish his  _ own _ outwardly being. “That’s not true. You’re not d-dead yet, I can get you some medicine. A salve, maybe? Just let me h-help you.”

Two tiny hands were crawling up his chest, digging into his bowls and stomach along the way and making a point to drag out every single intestine, every single possible organ and dumping them onto Crowley’s arms and forearms. Hot blood seeped down his limbs, filling his nailbeds with unwelcomed warmth as he  _ screamed _ . Crowley felt the child ram their knee into the spot where his bladder used to be, forcing his eyes to shoot open. 

“ _ This _ is what death felt like when Pestilence touched me!” Sharp nails pierced his lungs now. Crowley vomited up blood. “You could have stopped this! You could have grabbed me before They did, but you didn’t! And I suffered more in that instance than I could ever endeavor to make you suffer for a thousand years, but this is a start. Tearing you apart piece by infernal, bloody, unlovable piece.”

“A-” Was all Crowley managed before blood filled his mouth. The child’s face was directly in front of his now, eyes baby blue and shining but rimmed with crusty puss and the hands still kept  _ hacking  _ and  _ rupturing _ .

“Go ahead,” The child dared, squeezing Crowley’s mouth so the blood spilled out like a river. His hands, heavy with intestines and kidneys and other things he knew were there but couldn’t name, twitched in painful protest. “Call out to him. Call out to him like I tried to call out for my mother. But he won’t come to save you.” The child bent low by Crowley’s ear and whispered, “No one will.” 

Teeth clamped down around his helix and lobe. Crowley didn’t know if the child wasn’t able to tear his ear off in one rip altogether or if they were taking their sweet time, but it felt like four visceral lifetimes of complete and utter pain until his ear finally detached from his skull. He screamed throughout all of this. He screamed that he was sorry, that everything was his fault, that he  _ deserved this _ , but the child never stopped. The child moved from his ear to his eyes and nose, making sure that nothing was recognizable. 

It was only when Crowley was half deaf and near-blind did he even venture to try the name again, right when the child plunged their hands into Crowley’s punctured chest cavity as they dove for the heart. The child could have Crowley’s body, but they couldn’t have his heart. That heart belonged to no one but-

“Azira-!” 

***

“-phale!”

Crowley shot up as the scream exited his tight throat, chest heaving as his arms hurriedly, roughly patted down his own body to make sure that everything was intact, that his  _ heart was still in his chest _ . It was only after he poked and prodded around his throbbing torso, counting out one or two of everything, that he allowed himself to hear and see his surroundings. He noticed, first, that he was alone, and worried for a second that he had simply hallucinated Aziraphale these past two or four days until he realized that he would have never bought the tartan blanket that had been so unceremoniously kicked off the bed. Maybe Aziraphale hadn’t returned from giving the child downstairs the theriac. Maybe Aziraphale just up and left. Crowley couldn’t blame him if he did, though he loathed the feeling of loneliness and disappointment Aziraphale’s absence left in its wake. 

Birds were chirping outside the window and sunlight streamed onto the stone floor below. The sky, as far as Crowley could tell, was undisturbed by clouds, and all things considered, it should have been a very nice day. The lack of melodic voices in the street below, however, and the overall stench of piss and death, deemed it to be just the sort of day Crowley would have like to have hazily slept through. For a minute he hungrily threw off the pillows and remaining blankets from his bed, tearing through the straw of his mattress like a rabid raccoon. Maybe he had hidden another bottle. Maybe there was hope for him yet. Maybe Aziraphale could still love him.

There was nothing. Crowley had only ever had the one bottle, and Aziraphale sought the end of it. It made Crowley furious very quickly when he realized what had happened. In his delirious weakness, he had surrendered the only means he had of pursuing a life that was painless and meaningful to him. He hadn’t completed his penance. Crowley’s mouth watered when he thought about theriac, about the bitter drops coating the inside of his throat, about the blissful ignorance that followed it. He needed to get more and he had to do it fast before Aziraphale came back. 

Crowley fell the minute he held himself up on his feet, landing harshly on his shoulder. The pain doubled everywhere at that moment, and paired with the effect of having the wind knocked quite suddenly out of him, Crowley cried out.

“Az...i..ra...pha...le…” He wheezed in agony. His lungs were on fire as he hoped for a response. None came. 

Maybe the child was right. Maybe Aziraphale would never save him, not really, not where Crowley needed it the most. Healing the physical body was one thing, but that wasn’t what needed saving. Bodily injuries, self-inflicted or not, could always be fixed with a miracle or with time, but injuries of the mind were very different. Crowley couldn’t save himself from the poison that had resided in his brain since he slithered out of the sulfur pool. He’d tried so many things and nothing had ever worked apart from Aziraphale and theriac. It was much easier to take the drug than to swallow his pride, so Crowley pulled himself to the window with his arms, the rest of his body much too weak to be of any use. 

It did not seem like a miracle to Crowley that the man outside the church all those years ago was still alive and preaching. On the contrary: it made perfect sense and only proved that what he was saying was right. Practice what you preach, and all that. Crowley didn’t have a choice but to believe him now, as he folded his arms on the windowsill and gazed longingly at the man below. There were only three other people besides him occupying the street. One was scuffling their feet around the gravel and waving their head uselessly side to side before gazing down and limping away. A rat scurried out of Crowley’s building and followed them down the road. 

“Idiot,” Muttered Crowley into his arm. He turned his attention to the speaker at the church. Sweat rolled down his face. 

“How many of ye have had family members that have died of the plague?” The man asked. No one answered, but one person very clearly choked back an audible sob. Crowley felt sick to his stomach. That could very well be one of the members of the family of the child that died so many years ago. The child  _ he didn’t save _ . Didn’t even  _ try _ . Aziraphale would have been mortified to know that Crowley didn’t even attempt to rescue the child. Crowley was mortified himself. Disgusted, even. He swallowed back saliva. “They died because they were impure. Unclean. The Lord hath purged them from Earth because He hath deemed them unworthy. ‘Tis their fault. Thou shalt be on the same path, thou wicked servants of evil. Thy fate hath been determined since the moment ye were tempted in the garden. This is thy punishment, thou unlovable, unforgivable creatures of sin.”

Crowley coughed to mask the feeling of wanting to cry. Tears hotly pricked his eyes and he shut them tightly. “Aziraphale can’t love me,” He whispered. “He can’t love me because I am a _snake_ and I am _wicked_ and _violent_ and everything _he is not_. I just want to die, just let me die if he cannot love me let me _die,_ dear God, let me _die,_ _let me die_.”

It was odd, calling out to Her in his hour of need. Crowley had never done it before. It made his heart squeeze painfully, his legs cramp up with extreme shooting pains, his head throb with the knowledge that She would never answer him. It left him dizzy and breathless, or maybe the act of lifting his legs over the windowsill had left him dizzy and breathless. He wasn’t sure. 

“I can’t do this anymore. I can’t. I just…” Crowley wiped his eyes carelessly with the back of his hand as he sat on the ledge, legs dangling freely in the air. The light breeze felt nice on his bare legs. They were so emancipated, more like sticks of bone than thick cords of muscle. No one above noticed. He didn’t have enough strength to heal his infernal body, but he had enough to take attention off of him, “I can’t.” 

He started to push himself out of the window, to welcome blissful death (because Crowley wouldn’t choose to be discorporated. To him, it wouldn’t have solved any problems) when a hand grabbed his collar and yanked him forcefully back. The tightness around Crowley’s throat as the front of his shirt choked him and involuntarily made him cough. Suddenly he was staring at the wooden beams of the ceiling, and, just as suddenly, Aziraphale’s glowering face came into view. 

“Dear, you didn’t just try to fall out the window, right?” His voice was smooth water running over stones. Crowley gasped for air, sputtering up spit for a minute before he regained his own power of speech.

“R-igh’.”

“Then, pray tell, explain to me what I just saw?” 

“Well, uh, I, uh, um… I like birds.” 

“You like birds?” Aziraphale crossed his hands over his chest, an eyebrow raised, clearly not buying it. 

“Yeah. ’m a snake. We eat birds. I saw one and I thought, ‘Oh, lovely bird, haven’t had one of those in a while. Let’s catch it.’” 

“Crowley, in all my years of knowing you I have never seen you eat a cooked bird, much less try and jump out of a window trying to catch a  _ live one _ .” 

“Well,” said Crowley, propping himself up on his elbows, hair swinging in his face, “first time for everything.”

“I’m not buying it. You tried to kill yourself.” Aziraphale decided. “You just lied to me.”

Crowley shrugged. “I’m a demon, that’s kind of what I do.” 

“Yes,” Aziraphale agreed, and now he was on the floor, kneeling beside Crowley and there was a fire in his eyes, desperate fire in an attempt to understand and to make understanding happen. “Yes, you do lie. But you don’t lie to _me_. Never to me.”

Crowley chuckled softly as a last sort of defense, sort of scooting away from Aziraphale, but he grabbed his hand to steady and halt him. “What makes you think you’re so special, angel?” 

“I’m not. I don’t think I’m special, but that’s probably the point. You like ordinary, dear. If I was someone like Gabriel - stop making that face, he’s a perfectly nice angel - you wouldn’t have bothered with me in Eden. You like me because I like my habitual, regular routines and I don’t think you’ve found anybody like that before. Is it… Is it something like that?” 

Crowley just stared into those glowing eyes, getting lost in the vast blueness of them. The sky and the sea and the robin’s egg could never be as extravagant as what was right in front of him. Aziraphale’s irises were a kaleidoscope of sapphire crystalline, ever-changing but always brilliant no matter the pattern. Crowley had once wished to commission the best painter in all the world to paint Aziraphale’s eyes before deciding that he couldn’t be done justice. To capture the stillness of Aziraphale’s eyes would be to lose the very essence of why Crowley loved them. He loved them because they were liquid; because Aziraphale could change his mind and think for himself and that was why Crowley loved Aziraphale.

“Yes, it’s something like that.” Crowley murmured. He let himself reach up and ghost over Aziraphale’s jaw, so soft and perfect, nary a blemish on the marble-white skin pressed generously over thick bone. Wherever he had been the past six years had fed him well. They were so close, noses almost bumping into each other, and Crowley didn’t dare to breathe lest he blow away whatever was between the two of them.

“Crowley, what-?” 

And then, at that moment, Crowley did something so ridiculously brave and so unfathomably stupid and he didn’t know why he did it at all: he kissed Aziraphale, pressed their lips together and closed his eyes. Whatever question Aziraphale was going to ask Crowley didn’t want to answer. He didn’t want to ever pull away from him, didn’t ever want to taste anything other than the minute tang of sugar and tea and ink that inhabited Aziraphale’s lips, didn’t ever want to face the consequences of his actions. Crowley did that once before; never again. After this, he would either sprint out the window and just  _ die _ like he originally wanted, or flat out transport himself to the top of the highest mountain in the world and just sit there until it crumbled down into nothingness. But right now he was warm and tingly and Aziraphale’s lips were plump and soft and malleable under his own, and it didn’t matter to Crowley that Aziraphale wasn’t kissing back - Crowley knew he wouldn’t - and it didn’t matter that his room smelled like shit and vomit and that the preacher outside was still screaming and it didn’t matter that this, kissing Aziraphale like the world was going to end, was never going to happen again. 

It didn’t matter that when Aziraphale pulled away he wiped off his lips. Crowley had gotten what he wanted. He looked at Aziraphale again, how he was trying to wrap his brain around what just happened, how they should proceed from this moment. Then, Crowley realized, it didn’t matter that he got what he wanted. He couldn’t break Aziraphale, and he couldn’t run away. He had to do damage control. 

“S-Sorry,” Crowley offered, grabbing onto the bedpost and hoisting himself back into his bed. His arms and legs shook with the effort and sweat formed on his brow. “Haven’t eaten in a while… wasn’t thinking straight. Sorry, angel. That won’t happen again.”

It seemed as though Aziraphale was frozen in time. He stayed there, knelt on the floor, chest neither rising nor falling, lips still slightly parted with the sentence Crowley had kissed away. The only sign of life was the tips of his ears which were slowly reddening and the slight twinge of his pinkie finger. Crowley leaned forward and courageously reached out a hand, tapping Aziraphale on the shoulder. 

“Angel?”

No response. 

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have… I just… Aziraphale, please. I overstepped my boundaries. I don’t…” Crowley chuckled nervously, smoothing back one of the locks of hair that had begun to swing into his vision. “I don’t even know why I did what I did. Please. I’m sorry. Just say… say something. Anything. Say that you hate me. Say you never want to see me again. Really, I won’t mind. But right now you’re scaring me so just… anything.” 

“They’ve dug two more mass graves outside.” 

“O-oh?” Crowley replied, and now _ he _ was the one who had turned to stone. Aziraphale moved towards the fire pit, snapping his fingers to miracle flames on the charred logs. Crowley hadn’t lit a fire in two years. He’d quite forgotten the warmth it brought him. His fingers and toes ached with cold and pain and Crowley again wished for theriac. Nevermind he was never again to be in Her Grace ever again, theriac still provided the pain relief Crowley needed to survive on a daily basis. He watched Aziraphale look into the great black cauldron that hung suspended over the fire. He needed to lean on his tiptoes to inspect as thoroughly as he needed to, and, when he was done, went over to the box of groceries Crowley hadn’t noticed before. He’d probably been out while Crowley was sleeping after he’d given the theriac to the boy below. The entire time Aziraphale moved he made careful calculations to keep his back to Crowley. 

Crowley blinked and cleared his throat, trying to continue the morbid conversation. “I haven’t been out in two years. How many mass graves are there, angel?” 

Aziraphale shrugged as he bent down to grab something green from the box. “Do you mean in London or Europe as a whole?” 

“Europe.” 

“Don’t know.”

“London, then.” 

“Don’t know.” 

Crowley huffed and rolled his eyes. What was the point of Aziraphale asking which place he meant when the answer was going to be the same? He let it go and decided to change the subject. “What are you making?” 

“Rabbit stew.”

A thin smile spread across Crowley’s face. “Rabbit stew? I haven’t had that since, uh, well, probably seven years ago. Where’d you get the rabbit?”

“The lady downstairs gave it to me in exchange for the theriac. I told her no, I really didn’t need it, but she was insistent. I have to say I did miss rabbit.”

“Did they not have it where you’d been for the past six years?” 

Aziraphale miracled the pot full of vegetable broth and got to work chopping the various sorts of vegetables he’d procured at the marketplace. Crowley wondered how many people still ran shops there. It couldn’t have been very many nowadays.

“In Poland? No, they did. I just didn’t partake in food or drink.”

Crowley laughed at the ridiculous notion of Aziraphale fasting. “You? Withholding yourself from wine and bread and whatnot? Don’t make me laugh, I’m lightheaded enough already.” 

Aziraphale plopped the peas and carrots and onions as well as the lamb into the now-boiling broth. “I’m serious. I was trying to be a good Angel. You know, do less human stuff.”

“But why… Aziraphale, why would you ever want to do that?” 

“I didn’t!” Aziraphale said, and he turned towards Crowley now, eyebrows furrowed in anguish, hands wringing themselves in a clear state of dolor. “But I needed to distance myself from them and I couldn’t just  _ abandon _ Her children, so I stopped doing human things. I couldn’t bring myself to enjoy even a drop of drink or a crumb of food when they couldn’t either. It was hard. I hated it. But it felt like I needed to punish myself for not stopping the plague.” 

Crowley crossed his arms and said, “I thought you didn’t want to. That’s what you told me six years ago. You weren’t going to help the humans, so why go through all this trouble of self-inflicted penance?” 

“I never said I wasn’t going to help them, dear, you’re putting words in my mouth. What I said was that I needed to look for the silver lining so I could still do my job diligently.”

“Why Poland? Why not stay in England?” Crowley wanted to tack on, ‘ _ why not stay with me’  _ to the end of that sentence but refrained. The sun outside was going down now, but the dark purple shadows had not yet reached Aziraphale’s shining figure. They never would, if Crowley had anything to say about it. Aziraphale, for all his bone-headed decisions he had made, never deserved to be soiled with the night.

Aziraphale sighed, turning back to stir the soup before taking a seat in the chair. “I’m a coward, Crowley, that’s why. You’re much braver than I am, staying here, facing the music.” 

Crowley scoffed. “Yeah, angel, so much braver. Sure. Remind me: out of the two of us, which one has actually been a part of society for the past two years?”

Aziraphale seemed to be sizing Crowley up, deciding if it was worth telling him about what had happened the past six years or if he was better off bathing in the cool musty darkness of ignorance. Crowley, if he had his way with anyone else, would say that yes, he was worth it, and would in fact get that story through any means necessary. But this was  _ Aziraphale _ , which meant that Crowley probably did not, in fact, deserve to hear this story. He had been prone to making fun of things in the past that ought not to have been laughed at, and when a note of sympathy was called for Crowley poured in a cup's worth of bitter and blatant indifference. But that was all at the human’s expense. Crowley had never once belittled Aziraphale for his actions or his thoughts. However, trivializing was still trivializing, and Crowley had done it enough to whereas Aziraphale probably felt self-conscious about sharing his life with him. 

“I went to Poland because that was the only place where they didn’t have the plague.”

“ _ What? _ ”

Aziraphale stomped his foot and jutted out his bottom lip. “This is  _ exactly _ why I didn’t want to tell you, Crowley! You’re angry with me!” 

“Angry? I’ve said one word, angel, that can hardly count as  _ anger _ .”

“It was the tone you had!” 

“Well if I’m angry you’ve no one to blame but yourself.” Crowley shifted himself so he could see over Aziraphale’s shoulder. “Stir the stew. It’s going to boil over.”

“Don’t change the subject.” Aziraphale still did as Crowley demanded and Crowley returned to his original position. He closed his eyes and tilted his nose towards the ceiling. 

“‘M not. Just didn’t want your hard work to go to waste.” 

If Crowley didn’t know better he could almost  _ hear _ Aziraphale smiling. “Oh, well… thank you, dear. That’s very-”

“Don’t say it,” Crowley warned, lifting up one eyelid.

“Thoughtful,” Aziraphale said. “I was going to say that it was very thoughtful of you.” 

“Ngk.” He stuck out his tongue in disgust and closed the open eye again. 

The smell of a homecooked meal had never crossed Crowley’s threshold for as long as he had resided in it. For one, he never ate. In his mind, a demon, however shit at his job as he may be, should look like a skeleton freshly raised from the grave when the skin was nearly disintegrated off the bone, stretched taut and tight. Crowley fancied alcohol - lots of alcohol - to keep his corporation going, because hey, wine was made out of grapes. Same thing, different form, in Crowley’s opinion. Besides, eating required him to look at his plate as he shoved food in his mouth because Crowley had the hand-eye coordination of a snake. Which is to say none, because snakes do not have hands. He was messy and he was clumsy and he always made himself look like an absolute fool in front of Aziraphale. So he didn’t eat when they were together, and when they were alone Crowley didn’t see the point in taking care of himself if no one was around to care. 

Still, despite all of that, he did wonder how good of a cook Aziraphale was. If the smell was anything to go by Crowley was in for a real treat. Of course, he was. It was  _ Aziraphale _ , after all, and there was nothing, save for being a demon, that he couldn’t do perfectly.

The frigid night air drifted in from the hole in the roof and thoroughly chilled Crowley to the bone. His cold-blooded body involuntarily shivered to try and warm itself up, because that’s what human bodies did, but a snake’s body didn’t regain heat from movement, so the act was pointless. Crowley stuck out his tongue once more. It was going to snow soon - he could taste it in the air. 

“Good  _ Lord _ , Crowley,” Aziraphale said. 

Crowley licked his lips. They were rough and chapped and disobedient when he tried to form words. “Wot?” 

“There’s a hole in your roof!” 

“Mm, yeah… yeah, suppose there is.” 

“How long has it been there?”

“Er… uh… how long’ve I lived here?” His voice sounded reedy and faint. It must’ve been below zero for the temperature to have such a negative effect on him. 

“Oh, dear,” Crowley heard Aziraphale mutter to himself, and then there was a snap and the wind stopped blowing down on top of him. The shivering persisted, unfortunately. Crowley’s muscles started to hurt. “Dear,” Aziraphale sounded closer this time. “Crowley, dear.” 

Crowley turned his head to the left a little bit. He didn’t have the energy to do much else except hum in response. There was a warm hand on his forehead. He leaned into it, and when it went away he hummed again to voice his unhappiness. 

“Can you open your eyes for me? The stew’s ready. You’ve got to eat.”

“N-n-not hun-n-ngry.” Crowley chattered out.

He heard Aziraphale sigh. “You haven’t eaten in seven years. You look like a… like a… well, frankly, dear, you look like a corpse. Like you belong in one of those mass graves. There’s no other way to say it.”

“D-d-d-d-dem-m-mon.” Crowley lifted a shaky pointer finger at himself and then instantly let his hand flop back down onto the straw mattress. Then he frowned as if just noticing how uncomfortable he felt. His nose and toes and fingers were numb, and the upper part of his legs ached and burned because of the activity he’d done. 

The sensation of Aziraphale tucking the heavy tartan blanket around his chicken-wire frame came next, and all the while he whispered under his breath, none of which Crowley could have made out even if he had the energy to do so. Finally, Aziraphale said, “You may be a demon, but that does not give you the right to treat your body as you have been. Please, eat.”

Sluggishly Crowley managed to slide his eyelids open about halfway. He was so exhausted all of a sudden. “‘K-Kay,” He said because he wasn’t going to win this argument, and they’d been arguing seemingly nonstop for days on end, and Crowley was tired of it. He was tired of saying the wrong thing, of looking like a downright idiot in front of his best friend, but most of all, and perhaps most importantly, he was tired of Aziraphale not smiling at him. Smiling  _ because  _ of him.

Speaking of smiling, Aziraphale gave Crowley a ghost of one on the corner of his lips. “Thank you, my dear.” 

Crowley watched as Aziraphale went over to the cauldron and snapped his fingers once more. His hands were no longer empty but rather they were filled with a wooden bowl of stew and a spoon. He walked back over to the bed and sat in the chair he’d put there previously. Crowley blinked and tried to remember when that had happened, but his mind drew up a blank. He looked at how artfully Aziraphale stirred the stew. He didn’t realize such a thing could be artfully done, but Aziraphale had a way of surpassing every expectation Crowley had for the world. It was the way that he held the spoon. Perfectly manicured nails gripped the end of the utensil with a light - yet firm - grasp. It was like Aziraphale had placed enough faith in the spoon itself to stir the stew, but just enough common sense to know that it still needed a bit of guidance. Crowley wanted to smile. He refrained. 

“It should be the right temperature. Can I feed you? You’re shaking terribly. I don’t think you’d be able to feed yourself without making a right mess of things.” 

Crowley nodded. Aziraphale could ask him if he could stab him through the heart and Crowley would say yes. He couldn’t think of a single thing that Aziraphale could request that he wouldn’t grant. It was always worth it to see those plump cheeks grow rosy with flattery. Crowley opened his mouth as Aziraphale lifted up the spoon. 

“‘T’s goo’,” He gurgled, and the stew dribbled down his chin. Aziraphale rolled his eyes in what Crowley assumed was a kind way and miracled up a napkin to dab his chin. 

“Seems you’ve made a mess of things anyway.” Aziraphale’s voice was soft and borderline affectionate. It almost seemed as if he’d quite forgotten the whole kissing business, if not for the slight panic still residing in those liquid blue eyes. “Try again, dear, and keep your mouth shut while there is food in it.”

They sat in silence while Crowley let Aziraphale feed him. It was strangely intimate and yet Crowley wanted  _ more _ . He wanted more closeness and rapport and attachment to Aziraphale because, in all the creatures of the universe, human and celestial and infernal,  _ he  _ was the one that Crowley could stand. Oh, there was the odd human, of course. Jesus wasn’t so bad, and neither was Marc Antony once he’d had a pint or two, but overall Crowley didn’t mingle too much with the masses. He loved watching them. He loved knowing that they were out there, living their lives, laughing at jokes and skipping stones across streams. He loved that he could help humans live out their mortal lives to the fullest even though he ought to have done the complete opposite. Crowley  _ loved _ humans, really he did, but they all paled in comparison to what Aziraphale could offer.

Aziraphale could offer him cool smiles on a hot summer’s day, and he could offer him a warm breeze of laughter on a cold winter’s night. Aziraphale could offer friendship like no other being Crowley had ever known because he was soft and he was kind and he was the most forgiving angel. Nevermind that Crowley didn’t deserve any of those things. He got Crowley in every sense of the word, from the ends of his flaming hair right down to the nails on his feet. That was why Crowley wanted more from Aziraphale, not because he was greedy, but because he was undeniably selfish. 

The stew, made by anybody else, would have been nothing special. But because it was made by Aziraphale, Crowley thought it was the most divine thing that had ever passed his lips. He felt dirty thinking that thought, that something so heavenly could enter his body without burning him into hellish nothingness, but he thought it nonetheless. He didn’t know what else Aziraphale had added to the stew, but maybe it was just the simple few vegetables and the rabbit. Crowley hadn’t had anything to eat in seven years, maybe he’d forgotten what food tasted like. That was also possible. 

When the bowl was almost a quarter empty and Crowley’s violent tremors had mostly ceased, he shut his mouth and shook his head. Aziraphale leaned back in the chair. Crowley noticed he stared down into the stew, a worried look etched into his face. Crowley’s heart skipped a few beats. He had the beauty of the Elgin Marbles even when he was discontented. 

“Something wrong?” He asked, and Aziraphale didn’t meet his eyes when he answered.

“I should not have left you.” 

“We leave each other all the time, angel. What makes this so different?” 

“Because you’ve changed so frightfully.” Crowley watched Aziraphale’s hands, the same hands that were calm and cool and collected as they artfully stirred the stew, become akin to a wild beast and grip the bowl until his knuckles were white. 

“Aziraphale. Hey, hey, Aziraphale,” Crowley crooned gently, ducking his head downwards to try and meet his gaze. He longed to reach out and cup his face, to rub his thumb over his cheekbones and assure him that he hadn’t changed, that he was still the Crowley Aziraphale had met in Eden. But that simply couldn’t happen. It would have been a lie and would have driven Aziraphale further away, so Crowley left his twitching hands in his lap. “Look at me. I haven’t changed that much. I’m still here, still me.” 

Aziraphale shook his head. “Sometimes I’ll look at you and I… I don’t even recognize who you are. Maybe if I hadn’t have left… maybe you’d still…” His voice trailed off, and he inhaled sharply before standing up. There was a pained smile painted on his face and it made Crowley’s insides twist. “Gabriel says there’s no point dwelling on maybes. ‘Can’t change the past, Aziraphale!’ he says to me. Quite right, too. Did you like the stew?” 

Crowley stared at Aziraphale. “Yeah, yeah, uh, yep. Stew was fine, er, great, actually. Thanks.”

“That’s good!” he said, perhaps a little too cheerfully. “I thought it could use a little more salt, myself, but I’ve always been my own worst critic. You know how it is! Heh…” 

“I’m still the Crowley you know, Aziraphale.” He pressed once more. Aziraphale slammed the bowl of leftovers onto the desk. Some of the broth spilled onto the wooden surface and down onto the stone floor. Neither of them miracled it clean. 

“No,  _ no _ , because the Crowley  _ I _ know, the Crowley  _ I’m _ friends with, the Crowley who-” Aziraphale pinched the bridge of his nose. “The Crowley  _ I  _ know wouldn’t have tried to kill himself.” 

Crowley scoffed and folded his arms together across his chest. He looked out the window, at the steeple of the church. It was a stick of blurred black against the navy backdrop of night. “Obvioussssssly you don’t know me very well, then, angel, because thisssssss isn’t the first time I’ve tried to off myself. It won’t be the lasssst, either.” 

“How many other times?” Aziraphale spoke carefully, jaw set like a wire trap, steel and hard and cold, and Crowley didn’t want to deal with it. He was tired, mentally, physically, and emotionally. All he wanted to do was sleep for a very long time and just forget that this all happened. 

“Aziraphale-”

“ _ How. Many. Other. Times?”  _ It was almost a shout, if not for the pained whisper that issued from Aziraphale’s clenched teeth. 

“Sssssseven,” Crowley admitted. “Don’t assssssk me how. Don’t assssssk me when.” 

He loathed his hiss, hated that it indicated when he was stressed or scared or angry. Right now he was all three. He was stressed because demons never talked about their feelings. There wasn’t a guidebook on how to be a good demon, per se, and if there was Crowley had conveniently forgotten to check it out at his local infernal library, but he knew that feelings were absolutely off-limits. So Aziraphale coming in and talking about words like ‘happiness’ and ‘anger’ and ‘depression’ really stressed Crowley out. He didn’t particularly know how to respond. He was scared because he couldn’t let Aziraphale know that he was in love with him. Hopelessly in love with him. It was unhealthy and it was forbidden because Crowley was unworthy and dirty and there was nothing he could ever do to make him clean enough for Aziraphale. He would always have a stain on his being and Aziraphale liked spotless things. If Aziraphale ever found out… well, Crowley would be all alone. He couldn’t stand the thought of it. But, most of all, he was angry because if Aziraphale could see through him and his walls, get him to open up about his suicide attempts, could he also see Crowley’s carefully concealed attempts to hide his actual feelings? 

“Fine,” Aziraphale conceded. He rubbed his face. “I won’t press you on the subject. Can I at least ask how you’re feeling?” 

“Ngk… Fine, I guess. Still a little cold. Stew helped. Thank you.” 

“Yes, well, you’re quite welcome.” Aziraphale finally removed his hands from his face and looked down at the desk and floor. “Oh, dear. It seems I’ve made a mess.” 

Crowley hummed, leaning forward so his elbows rested on his knees. With the theriac out of his system, his joints had started to hurt again, and sometimes this position helped alleviate the pain. “Don’t worry about it, angel. I can just snap it away.” 

“You’ll do no such thing! You look absolutely dreadful, Crowley. I rather think you might pass out again if you try and perform a miracle. I’ll just wipe it up.” Aziraphale snapped up a rag and started to clean up the spilled stew.

“I don’t look  _ that _ bad,” Crowley said, taking the time to rub his aching wrist joints before freezing in his tracks. “Do I?” 

Aziraphale chuckled easily, eyes meeting Crowley’s own. “You’ve seen better days, my dear, but underneath everything, I might be able to make out the wily old serpent I knew in Eden.” He smiled thoughtfully. “I think your hair’s about that length, actually.” 

Crowley picked up his ministrations, choosing to gaze down at his hands rather than meet Aziraphale’s kind eyes. He didn’t deserve kindness. “Mm, is it? I wouldn’t know. Feels heavy.”

“Yes, that’s probably because your hair hasn’t been brushed in a very long time, so it’s developed dreadlocks. Nasty business.” 

Crowley watched as he crouched down onto his knees and wiped up the mess on the floor. He did it so carefully like the stones were living creatures themselves that required just as much love and care as a newborn sheep would. Crowley couldn’t imagine handling something so kindly. He was made to smash and break and tear. He was made to destroy. But Aziraphale… oh, he was a sight for sore eyes. Crowley didn’t think he’d ever see the angel again, and here he was now - here  _ they  _ were now - playing house. It was, admittedly, not really the sort of house that Crowley had envisioned. It was less of a marriage and more of a parent and child relationship, and if that was the case Crowley had a serious Oedipus complex. He winced as he pressed his nails a little too hard onto his wrist bones.  _ He doesn’t want you _ , he cruelly reminded himself.  _ No one wants you. _

When he gazed down at his hands again he realized just how long his claws had gotten. They were thick and black, like the talons of a hawk, and curved ever so mercifully around the skin of his fingers. It scared Crowley, seeing his hands like that. He’d taken much heed to maintain a more humanistic structure about him, and even on bad days,  _ really  _ bad days, days where it was lightless and airless and everything nasty and  _ nothing nice _ , he had never before let himself go this much, had never stopped caring about himself this much. There were droplets of blood on his hands from where he claws nicked him. Crowley sucked a deep breath in. At least he could still bleed correctly. At least he had that. 

He needed a distraction from the pain, so he asked Aziraphale, “What are you going to do with the rest of the soup?”

“I was thinking about dividing it equally and giving it to some of the children around here. You know, the ones who no longer have parents? Or the ones that are sick? Doesn’t that sound like a good idea?” 

“Ngk,” Replied Crowley. He returned to rubbing his wrists. Some of the blood-smeared from the base of the half-moon cuts, creating a bracelet of red. “Sounds fine, angel.” 

“Would you like to come with me? It might be a good thing for you to get some fresh air and see the city. It might improve your attitude.” 

“My attitude is just fine.”

“I beg your pardon, dear, but it most certainly is not. I haven’t seen you smile once since I found you.”

Crowley shrugged. “Not much to be smiling about, I guess.” His knees flared with painful intensity. He tried not to wince but wasn’t sure if he succeeded. At any rate, Aziraphale didn’t comment on it and instead sat on the chair by the bed. 

“How can I get you back?”

“I haven’t  _ gone _ anywhere, Aziraphale.” Crowley rubbed his face tiredly, voice exuding the fatigue he felt.

“You’ve tried to kill yourself multiple times while I’ve been here. You’ve certainly gone  _ some _ where. I’d like to get you back. So let me help you. Please.”

“You wouldn’t want to help me after you’ve heard about the stuff I’ve done.” Crowley rubbed his arms to get some warmth back into them, looking away from Aziraphale and out the window.

“Crowley, you’re a demon. There is no evil you can do that would shock me. I would have thought you would have done it all at this point.” His voice was soft and understanding, which just made Crowley shut his eyes tight against the words spoken.

If there was one thing in this world Crowley wanted to protect Aziraphale from besides being in love with him, it was how far he had fallen since actually Falling. Aziraphale could not know that Crowley could have stopped Ghengis Khan but didn’t because, hey, he deserved to have a little fun once in a while, and he didn’t stop the fall of Rome because Crowley couldn’t stand corrupted governments, and he certainly did not tell Aziraphale that he had stood not five feet from Pestilence, five feet from the putrid horseman that had killed so many and would kill so many more before they were full and satisfied, and did  _ nothing _ .

Crowley could live with Aziraphale thinking he had brought down civilizations, that he had decimated the Lighthouse of Alexandria, that he had torn down the statue of Zeus. And maybe Crowley had. Maybe the Lighthouse of Alexandria had taken up too much of Aziraphale’s interests and the demon inside Crowley was jealous. Maybe the Statue of Zeus looked a  _ little _ too much like Aziraphale, with the curled hair like roses and the cheeks curved like silk, and maybe they’d had a fight that day, and maybe Crowley went beserk. If Aziraphale thought that or a version like it, Crowley could live with it. But this? Outside? No. 

“Maybe the reason I’m different now,” Crowley said, taking in a shuddering breath and not meeting Aziraphale’s kind gaze, “is because two years ago I could have stopped all this from happening and I didn’t.”


	7. CHAPTER SEVEN

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> did y'all think you'd get resolution so quickly? nah. it's flashback times my guys!  
> (p.s. this chapter was kinda short imo so if you're nice to me i'll post chapter 8 real quick)

_ PART TWO: AZIRAPHALE _

**1342**

The cold interior of Heaven was not much better than the cold exterior of earth, Aziraphale had decided, as he sat in front of a desk awaiting Gabriel’s presence. It wasn’t the first time he had noticed this, but he never really quite remembered how it felt until he was actually here in the white rooms with the white furniture and the white light coming in from the white windows. Sometimes Aziraphale thought that angels liked white a little too much, but maybe that was the point, because although he’d never actually seen Pestilence with his own two eyes Aziraphale knew that the horseman was clad in the robes of deadly snow, and the angels were always cheering for the winning team, so making everything white made sense, but that didn’t mean Aziraphale didn’t like it. 

Crowley had him all wrong, and the thought of him admonishing Aziraphale when he didn’t know the full story, didn’t know Aziraphale’s feelings on the entire matter frankly made his blood boil and his fists clench with a rage he hadn’t had since the whole business of Alexandria. He felt exponentially dreadful whenever he thought about the pain and suffering and death the humans were going to endure, and he felt enormous fear start in the gums of his teeth and work its way into the nervous system, burrowing deep down until it reached his fingers and started tremors that left tea spilled all over tables and floors. Crowley didn’t know, and Aziraphale couldn’t exactly blame him for not knowing, after all, because he’d never taken the time to actually explain except for the odd sentence here and there. But if Aziraphale was honest throwing him out had been a tad too far. He had gone to Crowley for comfort and he’d left feeling like he’d been kicked all over the place. 

Aziraphale looked down at his interlocked hands, looked at how the right thumb covered up the left. His nails were perfectly manicured, the cuticles almost golden in Heaven’s wonderful glow. He twisted one of the rings on his fingers to pass the time and to ease his anxiety.  _ It’s alright _ , Aziraphale told himself, closing his eyes to try and get his breathing under control.  _ It’s only Gabriel. You like Gabriel. _

Except the last time he’d seen Gabriel he had chastised him for being too nice and preforming too many miracles, which didn’t make sense to Aziraphale in the slightest, but he apologized sincerely and said that he would strive to do better. Gabriel knew much more than he did, what with being closer to God and all that. Aziraphale shouldn’t argue when Gabriel told him to change, so he didn’t, but it hurt and he didn’t really understand. 

“Ah, Aziraphale!” Gabriel said. Aziraphale jumped a little bit in his chair. He hadn’t seen Gabriel arrive through the door to the left of him. There were a couple of scrolls of parchment in his arms, and he set them down before placing his palms facedown on the desk, a sterile beam pasted onto his face, and making eye contact with Aziraphale. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” 

“Well, uh, I was wondering if, er, if you might have, um, a place where the plaguewon’tgoinEurope?” 

“Pardon? No one likes a mumbler.” 

Aziraphale chuckled nervously. “Yes, quite right. So sorry. Uh… is Pestilence planning on hitting every country in Europe?” 

Gabriel unfurled one of the scrolls across the desk. Letters in Echonian appeared in a shimmering black ink, but Aziraphale was too anxious to take it in. The good thing, though, was that Gabriel’s piercing purple eyes had now turned their attention to the writing. “Mm, yes, that is what we’ve decided.” 

Aziraphale couldn’t just ask  _ why _ . He couldn’t question the Almighty’s great plan. It was blasphemous and would reward him with a one-way ticket into the sulfur pits of Hell, thank you very much. He had never asked Crowley what the Fall was like in detail - he’d never had the courage - but Aziraphale expected it wasn’t pleasant from the tidbits he’d collected when Crowley was piss-drunk and felt especially soppy whilst looking at the stars.

“I made that one, angel,” He’d say quietly, pointing at one of the thousands of white dots in the sky. Aziraphale would nod and swirl his own drink around in a cup. 

“It’s very beautiful, dear,” Aziraphale would respond. He would watch as Crowley would take another large swig of wine. 

“I miss the warmth of the stars. It’s not warm in Hell. Well, it is. It’s really warm, actually, but it’s like… Oh, remember that really hot summer day back in 1172?” 

“Of course.” 

Aziraphale would then hear Crowley clink his short fingernails against the bottle. “‘Ts kinda like that, but it’s just the heat. I can’t just go to a nearby river or something and swim naked. Hell’s just sweltering hot all the time and I hate it. The stars made me feel fuzzy and warm and alive. I don’t think I’ve felt alive since I’ve Fallen.” 

Based on that alone Aziraphale knew he most definitely did not fancy Falling, so he had to be careful when asking Gabriel questions. “Humans are pretty agnostic, aren’t they?”

Gabriel dipped a quill in ink and still did not look up from the parchment. “Aziraphale, you know how much I love small talk, but really, there is a time and place for it. Look at all this paperwork I have to get done. You can’t just come in here and start distracting me. Honestly, an angel should know better. Now just tell me what you want. I’ll give it to you if you promise to fuck off for the next hundred years.” 

“I would like for you to let me spare one European country from the plague.” This seemed to get Gabriel’s attention for the time being because he paused writing on the scroll and put the feather in the ink well. He stared at Aziraphale again, hands folded left over right. 

Angel’s eyes were difficult things to describe, in Aziraphale’s holy opinion. One would think they would give off an air of understanding and forgiveness because that is what an angel’s job was, after all. If a human slipped up an angel was supposed to offer a guiding hand back to the Light of the Lord without judgment and without deep-seated scorn. Some of Aziraphale’s brothers and sisters had eyes like that, but he had not seen them in a very long time and could not recall their names or what they looked like. Gabriel had most certainly  _ not _ been one of those angels. His eyes were the most violent shade of lavender Aziraphale had ever had the misfortune of seeing. It hurt to look at them, and he had to wonder if humans just up and burst into flames upon the sight of Gabriel because it seemed as if their Mother had poured some of Her Holy Grace into those ultrabright irises. His gaze pierced through Aziraphale’s very being, and suddenly the white tunic he wore did not provide enough coverage. He shifted in his seat uncomfortably, trying to avert Gabriel’s scrutiny.

“Why would I want to do that?” 

Aziraphale opened and closed his mouth for a second or two while he tried to come up with an actual reason that would satisfy Gabriel. One of the reasons, of course, was that he could not just sit there in England while everyone around him died, and he certainly could not stay there when the one being in the whole of existence did not want to see him. He had to give Crowley time to cool down, maybe not talk to him for three or four years, and then see how he felt, but for now, there was no point to living in England. Sure, Aziraphale loved the rocky beaches and the rolling hills and the jagged cliffs. He loved the simple sublimity of the English countryside like nothing he had ever loved before, but he couldn’t let it be spoiled by the memories of so many innocent deaths.

“You don’t want incest.” 

Gabriel full-on laughed at Aziraphale’s explanation.  _ “What _ ?” 

Aziraphale pursed his lips. He didn’t like being laughed at in any capacity. “I daresay that with all the deaths we might run into that problem. We certainly did in the beginning.” 

“Thank you for the concern, Principality Aziraphale. We have a team of Angels working on the population of the remaining humans. There will be no incest or sodomy because of this pandemic. Now, if you please, I have a stack of paperwork I must get back to.” Gabriel stuck a hand out to the door behind Aziraphale while the other one picked up the quill and started writing again. 

That was it, then. Aziraphale was going to have to go back to London. He was going to have to live in his home and read and light candles and listen to the horrible throes of sickness. He was going to have to see Crowley on the streets and awkwardly pass him on his way to buy some books or fish. London wasn’t that big yet. Aziraphale had seen larger cities pop up in shorter times. Alexandria and Rome definitely stood regally over it like a looming shadow, so the chances of running into Crowley were very large. It was Aziraphale’s fault, he supposed. After all, he had dragged Crowley to London in the first place, intrigued him with all the possibilities it held, told him it could offer him some of the best wine the world had to offer. Aziraphale had a hunch that Crowley would have gone anyways. He sort of followed him around from country to country. It made sense, what with them having to keep an eye on the other, so Aziraphale never thought much of it. 

He wasn’t sure if he had thanked Gabriel for his time or not. He hoped he had because it was too late now seeing as he had grasped the golden doorknob. Gabriel seemed miles away now, and yet… and yet Aziraphale still thought he could reach him.

“I’ve been a good angel, haven’t I?” 

His words echoed in the air. Gabriel looked up once again. 

“You haven’t fallen if that’s what you want to hear.” 

“Quite right. But I meant… well… I just don’t know if I can handle taking care of dying humans.” 

Gabriel cocked his head, a slight frown pasted onto his lips. “Is this a lack of faith, Principality Aziraphale?” 

“No!” Aziraphale said quickly, waving his hands in front of his face. “I have complete and utter faith for our Lord! She is bright and She is good and She is love incarnate.”

“So what is it then?”

“I am afraid of keeping up the expectations set upon me by you and the other archangels. I wish to remain on Earth, of course - it is dreadfully perfect there - and I must keep an eye on that demonic fiend, Crowley. I don’t trust him as far as I can throw him, and I can’t throw him at all, so… The… the point is, Gabriel, is that I know my shortcomings. I would not be able to perform my duties as well as you and the others would like, so I… I would like to be relocated somewhere less… stressful. Where the plague won’t be.” 

He heard Gabriel sigh as he moved his parchment onto the floor and snapped up a new scroll altogether. “You’re too soft. Maybe I am too, allowing you to skirt from your duties. You’re to be relocated to Poland. The angels working on that country have taken far too long for my liking. It’s their own fault that all their hard will go to waste. Pestilence won’t be too happy either. They were looking forward to passing through there.” Gabriel turned the parchment around, holding out the ink-filled quill for Aziraphale to take and pointed to a solid line. “Sign here.” 

Aziraphale scanned the document quickly. “This says that I have six years to teach the citizens of Poland how to avoid the plague, and if I fail then Pestlience gets to come and decimate the population.” 

“It’s only fair.” Gabriel reasoned. “Take it or leave it.” 

“I alone?” 

“You can’t just bunker down and read as you do in London. If you want to save people you need to work for it. Sign it or I’ll revoke my offer altogether.” 

Aziraphale snatched the quill and scrawled his name loosely over the rough surface. 

“Do not disappoint me, Principality Aziraphale. Have a nice trip.” Gabriel’s voice and the whole of Heaven melted away like paint in water, and, suddenly, Aziraphale was back on Earth. 


	8. CHAPTER EIGHT

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> disclaimer: you may think that there's a massive plot hole in this chapter for the simple fact that aziraphale thinks that the plague is spread through human waste, or that i didn't want to do research. but i did! i did SO MUCH research for this story! the fact of the matter is this: germs weren't discovered until 1850, and i like to think that angels and demons don't know much about science until the humans figure it out for themselves. ergo, aziraphale wouldn't know about germs and would likely think, as crowley does in the previous chapters, that the bubonic plague is spread by bad air, the alignment of the planets, human waste, or god himself. 
> 
> alright, we've got that out of the way. on with the story!

**1344**

Poland was a very quaint country, Aziraphale had resolved, once one got used to a new language and culture altogether, and Krakow, where he now resided, was like a sister city to London itself. A large portion of the buildings was brick and they stacked higher than what he was usually accustomed to. The homes and shops were packed tightly next to each other like fish in a barrel, and, ordinarily, it would have bothered Aziraphale to no end that there was nearly no privacy to be found, but he found it a sort of blessing in disguise. It was better to keep an eye on all the humans when they were elbow to elbow. It didn’t smell as bad as London did, although it had been a different story when Aziraphale had first arrived. It wasn’t an easy job - sterilizing an entire city and the subsequent farmlands surrounding it - but he hoped it was enough to keep the plague away. He spent the first couple of weeks establishing a sort of name for himself around Krakow. He bought a house, filled it with books and armchairs and tables and decorated the outside with bushes and flowers and smallish trees. Aziraphale was in for the long haul, which meant he could be here for years to decades, and he didn’t like the idea of not having his passions follow him wherever he went. He was an Angel of the Lord, after all, and comfort had to count for something. After that was all said and done with, it seemed a miracle that Dr. Azira Fell had come into town, full of new experiments and ways to cleanse Krakow as a whole. The community accepted him well enough, but, then again, so did every other community Aziraphale wished to find himself in. He’d liked to have chalked it up to his impeccable manners. 

There were fewer people here than in London which made his job easier. Krakow itself was surrounded by thick forests, so it was hard to infiltrate the city if you didn’t know your way, but with a standing population of over fifteen-hundred people, Aziraphale still had his work cut out for him. The days were spent educating the young men in the local university. Dr. Azira Fell had requested that the headmaster make his hygienics class a mandatory study, and he taught all of the pupils how to properly dispose of chamberpots and uneaten food, how to keep themselves and their families clean. None of the boys, even the rowdiest ones that seemed to have straw stuffed where their brain ought to be, failed. When night twinkled upon the city Aziraphale found himself walking the streets of Krakow, miracling the cobblestones and the dirt roads free of any human waste or bad air. The same went for the buildings he passed by as well, and when his walkthrough of the city was done he’d take out his wings and fly to some distant farmland that was way past the circumference of the forest. 

He hadn’t flown in such a long time. It was nice to stretch his wings again. It wasn’t really possible in England, what with such little tree coverage, and Aziraphale did not exactly fancy a strongly worded letter from Heaven that said that five or six humans had seen his wings. But he missed the feeling of the cold winter wind whooshing through his primaries and secondaries, pricking tears to the corner of his eyes as Aziraphale dared to do a barrel roll. _This_ , he thought to himself, _is what angels were made for_. They weren’t meant to walk on two feet constantly, held down by societal norms of beings that didn’t have wings. They were meant to jet through the air, singing and laughing and calling out to their brothers and sisters below. They were meant to create and to love and to rejoice the word of the Lord. Perhaps that is what Crowley missed the most, Aziraphale thought solemnly, as he landed at a nearby farmhouse. 

This family wasn’t very big yet - just a man and his wife and their newborn son. They resided in a small home with one bed and a cradle and other furniture they needed to live comfortably. Aziraphale had been looking at them from afar for a while now. Sometimes the husband would come into Krakow every six months or so to trade and sell his wares. He’d been too poor in his younger years to ever attend college, and when he had knocked up his wife eleven months prior any hope of higher education in the future had been dashed. Aziraphale, therefore, had taken it upon himself to miracle the family’s home spick and span. With a snap of his fingers and a little exhale from his mouth, the place was spic and span and free from any sort of deadly disease. For good measure, he had miracled a book onto their crude kitchen table inside detailing how to maintain this level of cleanliness. 

“That’s a bit over the top, angel,” He would hear Crowley say over his shoulder. Crowley was never actually there, of course, but Aziraphale imagined him nonetheless. Sometimes he would shoot the hallucination a look because  _ he _ wasn’t even  _ trying _ to help.

“If it was up to you, dear, you would let them die by Pestilence’s hand.” 

Crowley would scoff and cross his arms over his chest. Sometimes Aziraphale could catch an eye-roll if he was lucky. “I’m just saying. If you’re going to be their maid, might as well make them a couple of meals. Just really dig into the stereotype, y’know? Go big or go home, that’s what I always say.”

“You’ve never said that,” Aziraphale would say. “It’s not a bad idea, though. The young woman has her hands full. She could certainly use a break.” He snapped his fingers and there was boiling hot porridge on the stove. With any luck, the family would wake up when it was the right temperature. Not too hot and not too cold. 

“Typical,” Crowley would grumble, and Aziraphale would note how he would follow him as he walked outside once again, smiling fondly at the quaint little house and wishing the family nothing but good fortune for the next twenty or so years, and shot off into the air again.

Crowley never followed him into the air. He’d usually pop off as soon as Aziraphale unfolded his wings and would only return when he felt like commenting on whatever Aziraphale was doing that he didn’t like, which was usually along the lines of being an actual Angel instead of his pesky demon friends. Aziraphale wondered how Crowley - the  _ real _ Crowley, the one with tangible hands and cheeks that actually flushed with genuine blood whenever Aziraphale leaned a little too close - was doing. 

True to his word Aziraphale had not made contact with the demonic entity since their argument in London. It felt like a lifetime away now, and yet whenever Aziraphale thought upon the memory it wounded him deeply. He hadn’t meant to offend Crowley. He hadn’t meant to insinuate that he didn’t care what happens to the humans as long as they worshipped the Lord. He just… Well, the way Aziraphale saw it, as a creature of goodness and light and love, shouldn’t he focus on the good rather than the bad? Didn’t that make more sense instead of wallowing around in self-pity?

What was Crowley doing that for, anyway? As far back as Aziraphale could remember, Crowley could care less about the human race as a whole. He never stopped anything bad from happening to them, and he probably started some of the cataclysmic events as well. Although he had no evidence for it, the burning of Rome particularly had Crowley’s chaotic signature written all over the destroyed city. He certainly could not have cared that deeply about Pestlience starting a plague. But yet he seemed more upset than Aziraphale had, and truth be told it confused him. Maybe Aziraphale had him pegged all wrong. Or maybe that was what Crowley wanted him to think. Aziraphale couldn’t make hide or tail of Crowley’s mood that night no matter how long he mulled over it. Then he wondered if that mood was still continuing to this day. Crowley had been known to whine and throw a tantrum very much like a toddler, but unlike a toddler, these tantrums could carry on for decades and more often than not resulted in a severe depression afterward. Usually, Aziraphale was there to pick up the pieces and help Crowley to stand upright again. He couldn’t wile thwarts if the one person who was supposed to do the wiling didn’t feel up to the task. 

Maybe it was a more selfish reason. Maybe Aziraphale helped Crowley through these near impossible moods because he couldn’t bear to never see him smile again. He smiled so rarely, anyway. His smile was brighter than any star Aziraphale had ever seen - brighter than Heaven, even, which was saying something. Crowley’s smile, then, should have burnt Aziraphale’s retinas and permanently blinded him, because the light of Heaven often forced Aziraphale to squint and hours after arriving back on earth he was blinking away spots. But Crowley’s smile was a different brightness. His smile was bright like the warmth of a fire on a cold winter’s night. His smile was bright like the feeling of velvet running across your forearm. His smile was the soft bright notes of fruit in what would otherwise seem to be a very sour wine. Crowley’s smile was bright and it was rare, and when Aziraphale saw it he always, without fail, wanted to just freeze time at that moment and keep it in his pocket forever. No artist could ever do Crowley justice, so it was up to Aziraphale to keep him smiling that warm smile. 

Just as quickly as he thought of Crowley’s smile Aziraphale smacked it out of his brain. He couldn’t think like that. It was unbecoming and offered him a one-way ticket to demonhood. The Lord had decreed that angels and demons were not to mix in friendship and certainly not in romantic notions. Aziraphale really couldn’t say whether or not he loved Crowley. To an extent, he could be tricked into saying it. Yes, he loved Crowley because Crowley was proof that what Heaven was fighting for was a just cause. Yes, he loved Crowley because it gave his life purpose to fight the Fallen. 

But that wasn’t the extent of the love Aziraphale had for Crowley, and as soon as they could, the sinful thoughts came flooding back into Aziraphale’s mind. 

He loved Crowley because he challenged Aziraphale’s way of thinking. 

He loved Crowley because he wasn’t afraid to stand up for what he believed in. 

He loved Crowley because he did whatever he wanted and  _ damn _ the consequences.

Aziraphale truly loved those things about Crowley. He could never tell him of course, and he could never even confirm those things out loud for himself. Heaven always had ears around every rounded corner. 

“Stop thinking about him.” Aziraphale chided himself as he landed at the next farm. Dawn was going to peak over the fir trees at any moment now. He needed to be fast if he wasn’t going to be spotted. 

“I’ve found the only way to truly forget something is to either get just piss drunk or to bash your head in until you’ve formed an archaic sort of amnesia.” Crowley was back again, right where he wasn’t wanted or needed.

Aziraphale shot him another nasty look as he cleared all harbingers of diseases at the home. “Clearly. Is that why your hair is so red? All the blood from your head?” 

Crowley took a few steps back, shock written clearly across his pale demeanor. “Ouch, angel. I don’t need to forget half as many things as you do. I’m not the one with S-I-N painted across my face in big bold capitals.” 

“Oh, why don’t you just go away? I don’t want you here. If I did I would’ve brought you along.” 

“You  _ do _ want me here. If you didn’t I wouldn’t be standing here.” Crowley seemed to be sniffing the air and his head suddenly shot to the left of Aziraphale. “Clean up that horseshit. The air, too. Kids’ll play in it. Get whatever disease you’re trying to prevent.” 

“I meant the real you.” Said Aziraphale tiredly. “You’re really back in London, pretending to be sad or whatever you do when I’m not around.” He miracled the mess up that Crowley had pointed out. “Go away, please. I am trying not to think about you at the moment.”

Crowley leaned in again, a stupid smile plastered on his stupid face. It looked goofy; not at all what Aziraphale remembered Crowley’s smiles to be like. Then again, it had been so long… Did he really actually still remember the way he smiled? The warm feeling was still there, of course, running through Aziraphale’s body faster than blood and it rushed to his face. It filled him with a sort of resolve to look away and grumble a prayer under his breath. He found it absolutely ridiculous that he had to succumb to such stupid emotions. It was very ill-fitting for an angel.

“You’re in love with me!” Crowley sang. “Ooh, hoo, it’s written all over your face, angel! Do I know yet?”

“I am _not_ in love with you,” Aziraphale spoke very clearly and very plainly so there would be no misunderstanding.

“Meh, I beg to differ, angel. You’re blushing. I can’t say whether it’s cute or not. I am, after all, a figment of your imagination. Be a bit weird if you told yourself you looked cute. Yech.” Crowley stuck out his tongue in a face of disgust. “You could ask the real me though.” 

Aziraphale stomped away and peered in through the windows of the home. This family, unlike the last one, was quite big. There were six kids, all ranging a span of eighteen years to four months. The mother had sadly died during her last round of childbirth, from what Aziraphale had gathered. It would have taken a miracle to save her. It hurt knowing that if he would have been around he could have saved the mother. But, as Gabriel reminded him once every other millennium, there was no point in crying over spilled milk. Aziraphale could not change the past even if he wanted to. So to make up for his naturally slow-nature Aziraphale gifted the father with the peace and the patience he needed to raise his children, and, for good measure, blessed him with impeccable health for the next decade. 

Gabriel had said nothing about blessings of that sort. As far as Aziraphale was concerned something like this was fair game. He heard Crowley suck in air through his teeth. 

“That’s not playing very nice, is it, angel?”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “You’ve never played nice your entire life, why do you care?” 

“Oh, I don’t. But you do, and I am you, after all.” Crowley looked at his nails with a deep frown. Aziraphale noted how they were the same black curved claws that they had always been. The real Crowley hated those nails with a passion. They would poke holes in the daintiest of fabrics, which made keeping up with the style of high courts near impossible. Crowley swore up and down that Hastur had made fashion a literal hell on earth for him since he refused to go back Downstairs and do paperwork. Aziraphale just thought it was the humans advancing in their various methods and technologies. It wasn’t their fault silk was softer than the burlap they wore currently. Crowley, like all beings, was going to have to adapt to the changing times. Ordinarily, he was quite good at it. Well, he was better at it than Aziraphale was, anyway. Anytime he’d visited Crowley there had always been something new he was blathering on about. 

One time, back in Venice, Aziraphale had bumped into Crowley on the streetside. There had been crumbs on his vest from his mid-morning snack, and he hurriedly smacked them away. “C-Crowley!” 

“Ah, angel. Long time no see?” 

“Yes, I suppose it has been. Oysters in Rome was the last time, wasn’t it?”

Crowley nodded and started down the Venician street. Aziraphale tried not to think about how his hair was still aglow despite the cloudy disposition the world had that day. It had been tied back, but the humidity had caused some of the flyaways to frizz up and create a sort of makeshift broken halo around Crowley’s head. Aziraphale had never wanted to touch something so bad. He needed to know what that hair felt like. He refrained, however, and picked up his pace to catch up with Crowley, who had started to speak again. 

“Yeah, I think so. What’ve you been up to?” 

Aziraphale smiled, gazing up a little so he could meet Crowley’s serpentine eyes. “Oh! I’ve had several baptisms this month. I’ve kept some sailors boats from sinking or crashing into buildings. Rescued cats. Stuff like that. You?” 

Crowley grinned devilishly. “I’ve invested in clocks.” 

Aziraphale couldn’t tell if that was supposed to be something magnificently evil or something so mundane it had the potential to be. “Clocks, dear?” 

“Yeah, y’know. Clocks! Great big buggers that tell the time. No more stone age for the humans.”

“We haven’t been in the stone age for years, dear.” 

Crowley made a grimace. “You know what I mean. Have you seen a clock before? They’re gigantic. Really, Aziraphale, you ought to see one. They’ve got one in a cathedral. ‘Course I had to look through the window and even then… Ngk.” Aziraphale noted how he looked down at his toes as he wiggled them. They were clad in snakeskin and he had yet to determine whether or not they were actual shoes or actual feet. “Before you go on lecturing me about how ‘dangerous’ I was being, I would like to remind you that you’re not my mother and that my actual Mother doesn’t really care what I do because she hates me.” 

“I wasn’t going to do anything of the sort,” Aziraphale said softly. He wasn’t entirely sure where the whole angst moment was coming from, but he decided on the factor that it was Crowley and his mood changed quicker than water putting out a fire. “You’re a big boy, Crowley. I’m sure you can handle yourself.”

“I know I can.” 

Aziraphale cleared his throat. “So… you’ve invested in clocks?”

“I thought it was a demonic thing to do, yes.” 

“How, exactly?”

“Clocks tell time by the hour, Aziraphale. So if I have to be at work at seven in the morning or whatever, and I wake up at nine, I’m really late for my job. My boss, er, my boss will probably have a clock as well, and I can’t just say that it’s seven when I walk in because my boss can look at the clock and just fire me for being late and for lying. Really, it’s very evil when you think about it. I think it’s a great investment for Hell.” 

Aziraphale thought it was very nice of Crowley to take an interest in time management for the humans but didn’t say that out loud. He himself probably would not get a clock for another thousand years or so, one because the model that was out now was probably too big for any house he could ever hope to purchase, and even if Aziraphale favored old-fashioned stuff over new-fangled technology, he didn’t fancy an entire room dedicated to something he didn’t rightly want in the first place. 

Crowley, though, seemed delighted at the prospect of having a machine take up almost the whole of a chamber, and it wasn’t Aziraphale’s place to squash whatever little happiness he felt. It was his job. He knew that. But Crowley had had his hopes dashed enough when he had Fallen. Aziraphale didn’t want to be part of a problem. He would have rather liked being part of the solution if that was at all an option available to him.

There had been other examples of this sort of thing in the past, and there would undoubtedly be more in the very near and impossibly far future. Aziraphale, for lack of a better word, looked forward to it. 

“Sun’s coming up. Better get going.” The imaginative Crowley cut through the deep thicket of Aziraphale’s tome of memories. “You’ve got to teach a class today, don’t you?” 

Aziraphale shook his head, running a ring up and down his finger. For all the annoyances he caused, Crowley was still very good company, even if he was only a hallucination. He loathed not seeing him in the daytime. When the light hit Crowley just right he looked like an angel. Not one from Heaven, mind you. If he looked anything like Gabriel or Michael or Sandalphon Aziraphale might just have jumped off a cliff and sank to the bottom of the ocean for eternity right after Eden. 

Crowley was a different angel altogether. Aziraphale wondered if he was one of the first ones to ever be created. He seemed to be softer than what Aziraphale was normally used to. Kinder, even. Made for the universe and made for the stars. You had to be soft for that job, in Aziraphale’s opinion, because someone harsh would have crushed creation with their overbearing hands. Crowley had a nice balance, it seemed, and that was what, in Aziraphale’s eyes, at least, made Crowley the most angelic being he had ever laid eyes on. 

“No. Today I’m going to ask the King to quarantine Poland.” 

_ “ _ You  _ what?”  _ The tone of Crowley’s voice almost echoed that long-remembered sentence in the lushest, most perfect place Aziraphale could have ever imagined. Almost. There was the same amount of shock imbued into the words, but instead of a sprinkle of soft awe and fascination, it was more a pinch of absolute distaste and horror. It chilled Aziraphale to the bone.

“I don’t like the idea any more than you do! But it’s the only other thing I can think of to save all these people.” Aziraphale cried out in a whisper.

“By killing other people? Yeah, Aziraphale, because that makes  _ so _ much sense. Well done, really.” Crowley sneered, wiggling his tongue out. “What part of any of that screams ‘good idea’ to you?” 

“Come now, Crowley, there really is no need to be so rude! It is a perfectly reasonable decision to make. I don’t like to admit that. In all honesty, it seems pretty  _ un _ reasonable, but in this case, I would like to at least try it.” 

“I think real Crowley would be furious with you. There’s going to be children wanting to see doctors - wanting to see  _ you _ , and you’re going to deny them that chance? You can’t just keep people out of a country, it’s wrong and it’s unfair.” 

“I don’t think I much care what real Crowley thinks of me, at the moment. He’s expressed no interest in continuing a relationship with me after he so blatantly disregarded my feelings on the whole plague matter.” Aziraphale bent down the side of the house. One of the children seemed to have had planted a garden over the spring. It was late summer now and hardly any of the plants had yielded fruits or vegetables. He tsked and picked up a drooping potato leaf. “Poor things. Let me help you.”

In a flash, the garden was bright and colorful in the fading moonlight. Cabbages and cucumbers swelled to a nearly unnatural size, which was sure to feed the family for weeks to come. Aziraphale smiled softly to himself at a job well done and stood up to full height again. 

“I think Gabriel and the rest of the angels expect me to fail. I think, being an extension of me, you know that too. I don’t want to make a fool of myself again after that sword business in Eden. I want to be a good angel. That means I have to succeed in my mission no matter the cost. So I am terribly sorry that there will be children that have to die because I won’t let them in. Believe me, it will rot my core, but if it means I can tell Gabriel I did it - no, sorry. If I can come back and tell  _ you _ that there was a place, not particularly big but not a small trifle either, that was saved from Pestilence’s hungry grasp, I will do whatever it takes.” 

He let Crowley step forward, let him cup his cheek and look so tenderly upon him. His snake eyes were not as brilliant as Aziraphale remembered. They lacked molten universes inside of the irises. He let Crowley just gaze at him for a few precious moments. Aziraphale nearly burst into tears. God, he longed so much for this hallucination to be real. What he wouldn’t give to have Crowley know how he felt, how he wanted to take his unruly hair and braid it behind his shoulder so the wind wouldn’t tear at it, how he wanted to lay in bed reading to him until the early hours of the morning. It hurt to know that those feelings were wrong. 

“I hope you succeed, angel. I really hope you do.” 

And then Aziraphale let Crowley kiss him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> how's quarantine for y'all? i didn't really expect this story to kind of mimic real life in any way, but let's count the similarities, shall we?  
> \- mass graves  
> \- relearning how to wash your hands  
> \- depression is running rampant   
> \- locking down an entire city
> 
> anyway, where i live my dumbass governor has decided that my state is reopening on may 4th, so while my favorite bubble tea place is going to open back up it also means that people won't heed scientific facts anymore in lieu of getting a haircut. i hope wherever you are your politicians are doing a better job of combating this pandemic. ily, stay safe, and i'll see y'all in june:)


	9. CHAPTER NINE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh aziraphale, my sweet unreliable narrator who contradicts his thoughts and feelings with every other word… will you ever find peace?

**December 1348**

  
Sometimes Aziraphale wished that the humans would just disappear.

He didn’t mean that literally. Honestly, he loved the human race. They were quirky and spontaneous and full of life and hope. There were no angels and there certainly were no demons that Aziraphale could ever recall having those traits. Angels were, and Aziraphale hoped that God would forgive him for what he was about to think, quite stuffy and very rule-oriented. Demons, as far as Aziraphale knew, were the complete opposite. They tended to err on the side of modern styles of thinking and were generally content with the overall havoc that came with their species. Crowley was the only demon Aziraphale had truly ever talked to - every other Hellion was taught to him about by Gabriel or Metatron - so if he was a little biased then so be it.

Humans, though… humans were a very special manner altogether. Aziraphale didn’t know if God had meant to do it (he assumed She did. She had a plan for everything, being omniscient and whatnot) but the humans embodied the very best and the very worst of the celestial and demonic races. Aziraphale would watch a thin, nearly emancipated little girl tear off a chunk of dark rye bread and hand it over to her equally emancipated younger brother and his heart would swell at the sight of goodwill. When he looked at a young merchant trade a yard of silk for a few gold coins despite his wares being worth so much more, Aziraphale would smile wonderfully with contentment. Sometimes he would even go far enough to say that humans were cut from love and goodness itself, that they had really turned a corner from their last slip up, and Aziraphale could rest easy knowing that not even the most persuasive demon could sway them from their angelic lives.

But something would always dismay Aziraphale from ever even thinking that. The first, of course, was the flood. Aziraphale could never deny that the humans that drowned were callous and shallow and did not at all respect the Almighty as they should have, but it was still a great enough loss of life that he felt it keenly in his soft heart. There were more over time. Jesus had hit him especially hard, but it had hit Crowley harder. Aziraphale thought that after Jesus the humans would learn their lesson and actually start behaving for once. That never happened. The world had dissolved into a torrent of war and rape and cruelty and Aziraphale thought they should just start over again. It certainly might make things easier, might make his job easier. It was one thing to chase after Crowley and either stop him or level out the badness with his goodness, but it was another thing to miracle the wrongs humans did to themselves. It wasn’t easy work to ease pain in a widow’s heart. It wasn’t easy to alleviate the pain of an assault victim, but Aziraphale tried his best.

He tried his best here, too, in Poland. So far the death toll remained more or less the same as before the plague came to Europe. There had been tales of the outside world dying at the most extraordinary rates, the likes of which well-learned historians had never seen. Aziraphale hadn’t really seen it this bad, either, unless one counted the Falling of Lucifer and his angels, which sometimes he did and sometimes he didn’t. It all depended on his mood. The quarantine of Poland had been largely successful, and Dr. Azira Fell had stopped teaching at the local university and became more of a guard for the country. This was more his speed, after all, and he was more than happy to volunteer. The first day he looked over the walls of Krakow, the wind blowing through his hair and stinging at his ever patrolling eyes, Aziraphale felt secure. This was what he had been made to do originally. It felt nice to go back to his roots.

Sometimes he would look over to his left and thought he could envision Crowley, but his imagination had not conjured him up since that kiss early in the morning two years ago.

Aziraphale was ashamed of himself. He kissed Crowley back. He hated to admit it, but he did.

It wasn’t like he was going to get in trouble. That Crowley, after all, had never been real, and Gabriel or whoever else was monitoring him couldn’t very well chide him for his own imaginings. At least, that’s what Aziraphale had been led to believe. His thoughts, if they were pure and innocent and made for Her, were generally his own, so usually Aziraphale could think about the way he adored the smell of ink on new parchment or the way he had a deep affection for the way a cat twitches his tail contentedly in the late afternoon sun. Wanting to kiss Crowley bordered on sinful and was transparently sodomy. There was always a worry that someone would pick up on Aziraphale’s less than ideal thoughts. It wasn’t even that Crowley was a man. It was certainly part of it, of course, but it wasn’t the main problem.

The problem with Aziraphale loving Crowley was the fact that angels couldn’t take lovers of any sort. It compromised them. Made them weaker than what they originally were. It was one of the reasons why Lucifer had Fallen. He argued that as beings made of unconditional love that they should have the love returned back to them, that angels should be able to reciprocate it as well as receive it. God disagreed. When Her word was not being heeded she turned on Lucifer and cast him out of Heaven. God’s word was final: Angels Shalt Not Love. Everyone else took that rule to heart; Aziraphale included.

Crowley was also a demon. Aziraphale didn’t need to spell out why that was wrong in and of itself.

So in real life, logically, they could never happen. Aziraphale didn’t want them to happen. He didn’t know what he would do with himself if they did happen. Crowley certainly did not love him back. He wasn’t capable of it. Aziraphale loathed the fact that the one creature he had to fall in love with, had wanted to die for and had wanted to kill for, had to be the one creature that could never respond in kind to his feelings.

Maybe the fact that the Crowley who kissed him wasn’t actually the real Crowley eased Aziraphale’s mind to reciprocate the kiss. After all, it was just essentially kissing himself, and while that had other troubling notions attached to them, it wasn’t as bad as kissing the real deal. Besides, the hallucination wasn’t real anyway. No harm, no foul, but the connotation that this was what Aziraphale had wanted deep down, that this is what he wanted Crowley to do to him, scared him enough to block that part of his imagination off from his brain.

For two years he hadn’t even so much as remembered what shade of red Crowley’s hair was. Aziraphale was very proud of what he had managed to do and had planned a little party for himself tonight in celebration. Two years of sobriety from Crowley. What an accomplishment!

Still, Aziraphale would be lying if he said he didn’t miss witty banter. His Polish was passable at best and terrible at worst. Although the community in Krakow was understanding and tried to slow down for his sake, Aziraphale felt left out of the culture and the language altogether. He usually spent the evenings at his home now. The farmhouses he once frequented at night had all remained healthy so he really saw no point in venturing outside Krakow’s walls. He was a homebody, after all, and no mission would ever change that. Aziraphale liked the familiarity of his little home because it had all of his beloved books.

The sight of the trees swaying in the wind was really very lovely. Even if death and destruction lay within the forest Aziraphale gave thanks to Her for providing such a handsome sight. His fingers touched the crossbow beside him.

Casimir, the current king of Krakow, and, subsequently, of Poland, had not only agreed wholeheartedly with Aziraphale on the whole quarantining plan but had requested to take it a step further. He was a go-getter at heart, it seemed, and said that they shouldn’t just half-ass it. Go big or go home.

He had appealed for the guardsmen to shoot any plague victim that came within ten feet of the walls they had constructed. Whether it be man, woman, or child, it didn’t matter. Casimir wanted them dead and then he wanted their bodies burned. Aziraphale couldn’t really disagree with him. The studies he’d read about all said how burning bodies also burned away the sickness. It seemed like a good idea. Well, not good. Maybe not even great, but it would keep Gabriel from saying ‘I told you so’ and it might make Crowley - the real Crowley - happy.

Right, so maybe Aziraphale didn’t deserve a sobriety-from-Crowley party. He really just wanted to get drunk and he needed a reason other than shooting people point-blank in the head can mess even an angel’s mind up a little bit. It wasn’t even that different from the whole Egypt business with Moses and the Jews, but this felt so wrong. She hadn’t ordered it. Children that Aziraphale had killed in the past had all been because She had said it was right and just, so he had had no qualms on the matter. When it was a matter of killing children for Her, Aziraphale could do it and not feel a thing. After all, they were going to Heaven.

Something came out of the shadow of the trees. Aziraphale, ever the diligent soldier, picked up his crossbow and positioned in between his neck and shoulder. His eyes were trained on the spot as a young child, too far away for any distinctive facial features to be seen but close enough where Aziraphale could see that the person was young and small.

What he could see though, was the buboes that littered the skin of this child, and the metaphorical red X that hung over their head.

“Oh Lord,” Whispered Aziraphale, squinting his eyes a little to get a better shot. He didn’t know if the child was screaming or crying - sound didn’t carry that far. He assumed they were. The plague was a nasty business and even nastier if you didn’t have the pain tolerance for it. But it didn’t matter. In a few moments, they would have an arrow through their brain, and they wouldn’t feel anything at all. Aziraphale wished he couldn’t feel anything at all. “Let this child’s suffering be gone. Let this arrow fly straight and true to its mark. I pray you to accept this lamb into your flock. Amen.”

He let the arrow go. It traveled through the air with horrible precision and stuck in the child’s head. They fell silently to the ground and never moved again. Aziraphale took a shuddering gasp and closed his eyes, set down the crossbow, and folded his hands together in another prayer.

“Well done, Aziraphale,” A voice from above commented. He opened up one eye and trained it upwards.

Gabriel.

“I’m in the middle of prayer. One moment, if you please.” Aziraphale said. He shut his eye and let his thoughts return to the Almighty.

In some capacity, everything that Aziraphale had ever done had been for Her and for Her benefit. Things like herding sheep and performing baptisms were easy to explain because they were biblical in origin and therefore could be traced back to religion itself. Things like sticking an arrow through a sick child’s brain, in Aziraphale’s opinion, were harder to account for, but it was doable nonetheless. She wouldn’t want anyone to suffer, he reasoned, so it was right and just for the murder to take place. It left a vinegary taste in his mouth anyway.

Aziraphale asked God to grant both him and the child peace and to remember the love both had for Her, and then he put his hands at his sides and opened his eyes. Gabriel was still there, scowling slightly.

“You should not have ignored me. I was giving you praise.”

“I needed to talk to our Mother.”

“I am Her messenger. Anything you tell me can be relayed to her.”

Aziraphale shrugged sheepishly. “Sometimes I just want to talk to Her alone. Thank you for your patience, Gabriel, and thank you for your praise. But I don’t quite exactly know what you’d be congratulating me for?”

The scowl turned into a smile. It looked like acid upon Gabriel’s face and seemed very unnatural to Aziraphale. “For a great many number of things! The least of them being that remarkable shot you just made.”

He rubbed his arms awkwardly and looked away. Aziraphale didn’t think angels should acknowledge murder except for instances where it had most definitely and irrefutably been in Her name and Her name alone. Even then he still thought it would be weird. But he nodded his thanks anyway because it would be rude otherwise. The dirty feeling was still inside of him.

“I’ve also come to tell you about the wonderful job you did with Poland. I will admit, Aziraphale, I had my doubts. We all did, but you and your soft body have proved us wrong!” He clapped Aziraphale on the back. The contact stung. Aziraphale smiled because it was the polite thing to do, but he didn’t think the gesture fully reached his eyes. Luckily Gabriel seemed to be more preoccupied with the dust of the early morning air than Aziraphale. It had always been that way, whether it be dust or parchment or war, it didn’t matter, Aziraphale was always second place.

“Yes, well, when one has the Lord on their side, one can do the most remarkable things. It’s all thanks to Her, after all.”

“Obviously,” Agreed Gabriel. He looked down at the crossbow and pointed at it. “Will you tell me what this is?”

“It’s a crossbow.” Said Aziraphale.

“Astounding. You shoot people with it?”

“Yes.”

“I must tell Sandalphon about this new weapon. It shall no doubt come in handy when fighting demons.”

Aziraphale hummed but said no more on the matter. He didn’t like fighting in wars. Though gifted in fighting he had much rather preferred to protect than to engage in an all-out bloody war. It was too much of a stressor and whenever Aziraphale had found himself to be drafted in some offensive he skipped the entire country for a good couple of decades. Protecting was different. What he had done with the crossbow had been an act of defense. Aziraphale was okay with keeping things and people safe even if he didn’t feel good at the moment. He was sure that come five or ten years down the line he would be able to make peace with his murderous transgressions and write it off as an act of helping others. He had done it before and he could do it again.

War, though, for the sake of being the better race, was not something Aziraphale could ever get behind. He never understood Gabriel’s want to beat the demons down further than they already were. He hated the demons, of course, he did, and he wanted nothing more than to see them where they belonged. But Aziraphale was of the mindset they could solve problems with words and treaties rather than swords and crossbows and guns. Killing for war never sat right with him.

“I am also here to congratulate you on surviving longer your demon counterpart and to tell you that as soon as you confirm that the demon Crowley is, in fact, dead, you may finally return home and resume your duties with the rest of us.”

“Crowley is dead?” The words did not seem like they were coming out of Aziraphale’s mouth. They must have because it sounded dreadfully like his own voice, just very far away and very muffled. His vision seemed to recede into a dark tunnel. Gabriel’s corporeal body had faded away into nonexistence yet Aziraphale could still vaguely understand that he was talking to him. It was a bit like being underwater, Aziraphle supposed, because that had happened to him way back when, and whoever had saved him had sounded exactly like Gabriel had sounded now.

“Oh, well, that’s what we hear from a source in London, yes. He has not been seen in over two years, and his demonic activity has been inactive as of late. Logically we have no choice but to assume that he is dead, but we’d like to send you to double-check. After all, you know all of his tricks. If anyone can avoid a trap of his it would be you.”

Aziraphale curtly nodded. He registered hot tears pricking at his eyes and he blinked them away. Gabriel could not sense under any circumstances that his emotional state was compromised. “Poland will be safe while I am gone?”

“I cannot guarantee it. I myself have much paperwork to file after I am done with you. I assume that the other angels are much the same. It’s a very busy time, Aziraphale, I know you know that. We are in the middle of a pandemic, after all. Don’t ask such useless questions. Hopefully whatever you implemented here will be enough for them to survive. If not… oh, well. It was a nice experiment, but maybe some things are not meant to be, hm?”

It felt like a blow to the stomach. Not only was Crowley dead, but the country Aziraphale had decidedly saved for him was going to succumb to the one thing that ultimately separated them in the first place. Everything he had done… all those mornings in a poorly-lit lecture all filled with idiotic boys who couldn’t tell their washcloths from their handkerchiefs… all those nights spent making sure the farmers and their families would be well adjusted for the sickening years ahead, freezing his primaries off in the chilly atmosphere… it could all very well be part of a plan that was never going to work in the first place. Damn Gabriel for giving him hope. Damn him to Hell. Poland was supposed to be a new starting place for Aziraphale and Crowley and now it was all ruined.

Aziraphale felt like puking over the side of the wall. He felt like tearing out all of his hair and feathers and all the eyes that came with being an angel. He felt like screaming endlessly. He did none of it.

“Do I have to go?” His voice was oddly strained. Aziraphale held a hand up to his throat and coughed.

Gabriel blinked at him, his face entirely unreadable. “We would like you to. Mother wishes it. If you truly are the dutiful son you say you are you will do as Mother asks. Besides, I would not want you to disappoint me.”

“Alright. Thank you, Gabriel, for the chance that I was given and the news I was provided. May I be alone now so I can clean up here and return to London?”

“Certainly. May God be with you, Aziraphale.”

“And also with you.”

Then, Aziraphale was alone once more.

***  
It took Aziraphale far longer than he would have liked to clean up all his belonging. His hands were shaking badly enough to whereas a snapping miracle could not have been produced efficiently. He had tried it once before while very potently drunk. Originally Aziraphale wanted to teleport from Rome to Egypt. Caesar’s children, poor innocent dears as they were, were being attacked by their own people because of their lineage. So Aziraphale, filled with about a barrel and a half of deep, rich wine, decided to help them out and he snapped his fingers.

He landed, unfortunately, in a shin-high pile of yak dung in southern Mongolia. It had taken him a while to get back and the head office was not pleased with him. Aziraphale was less than pleased with himself as well because he had to throw away a perfectly good pair of shoes afterward.

Crowley, when he had caught wind of the story seven or eight years later, just laughed about it.

So with successful miracles out of the question, Aziraphale resigned himself to the very human task of packing everything one by one. Up until now, he had not fully realized how many books he brought with him. A lot of them were back in London, and once the plague was over Aziraphale had resolved to bring the rest back down. There would be too much death in England. The country would be too stained for Aziraphale to ever make a long-term life there again. It was why he had moved out of Pompeii and Rome and Jerico. Krakow was supposed to be his fresh start. Gabriel had spoiled it and wouldn’t even promise that Aziraphale could return.

Right now he was placing some very nice, very intricate bibles into a crate. Some were older than others and didn’t have the brilliant blue ink than their newer models did, but Aziraphale had bought them in the first place because they radiated love. It hurt to look at them now. Everything hurt now.

From the very beginning, Aziraphale knew that he was probably going to outlive Crowley. He never liked that idea because then he would have to think about life without Crowley, which was a notion that was unfathomable to Aziraphale. So much of who he was, of what life was, was due to Crowley’s unwillingness to accept things as they were. He had always been, in some capacity, part of Aziraphale’s everyday life even if they had been apart for several centuries. Thinking about a day where he wasn’t on Earth was not conceivable.

It felt like the world wasn’t real. The edges of Aziraphale’s vision were blurred and charred and kept him swimming through the too-thin air. He spun around in a dazed sort of dance as he kept packing bibles and novels and pamphlets away. They didn’t feel real, either. Everything was sand in his fingers, just sand in an hourglass that would fall and forever stay stagnant because no one else would flip it upside down. Suddenly, Aziraphale threw a particularly heavy leather book across his room, screaming when it didn’t burst into little beige particles as he wanted it to.

“WHY?” He bellowed, stalking over to the book. He picked it up and slammed it continuously over the desk that was near him. “Die already! I don’t want you! I don’t need you! Leave me ALONE! Go away!”

The book’s binding gave way and the yellow pages scattered unceremoniously across the table and floor. Aziraphale grabbed the ones within his close grasp and tore them to shreds with his fingers and teeth. “You’re all nothing! Nothing, nothing nothing!”

Aziraphale wasn’t even sure who or what he was screaming at. He thought that screaming and destroying his belongings would make him feel something; a flicker of anger or rage that would be enough to get him out of whatever he was stuck in. But it didn’t do anything and he was desperate so he shrieked and howled until it felt like his throat was raw and bleeding and then he screamed some more because he needed to scream because nothing was fair.

“I don’t want this! Any of it! I have tried so hard to make a life for myself. So unbelievably hard! I try to forget about Crowley - that insufferable selfish demon - and I try to forget about the plague and live my life as virtuous and as good as possible. But no - oh noooo. That would be too easy! So you drag me back!” Aziraphale grabbed a grand mahogany bookcase that ran up half the wall and, with relative ease, smacked it over his knee again and again and again until it shattered into splinters. “I. DON’T. WANT. IT.”

By this time Aziraphale’s voice had completely gone out and he was sweaty and panting, a good portion of his books and other memorabilia had been destroyed. If he was in the right mindset this would have induced absolute murder in Aziraphale, because books were meant to be studied and taken care of and under no circumstances were they to be massacred. But he looked around the room, at the wreckage he had caused; some of the torn pages had not yet fallen to the floor yet, some had settled atop of Aziraphale’s shoes and bed and snapped bits of chairs. He sat down, crushing some of the parchment beneath him, trying to control his breathing. Gabriel would send him straight back up to Heaven if he ever caught wind of this and Aziraphale needed closure.

When he ran his hands through his hair his fingers came back slick with moisture. He bowed his head between his knees and allowed himself to sob, hands flying back to grasp and pull at his sweaty curls. He couldn’t remember the last time he wept like this, with tears and snot and skin that itched because it was too small for Aziraphale. His heart throbbed and his brain ached and he just wanted to succumb to the numbness he felt. But he couldn’t because he had a job to do.

Truthfully Aziraphale could not tell you how long he sat there for. All he felt was the gnawing grief of losing a best friend and the rotting stench of depression filling his lungs. At some point, though, he must have fallen asleep, because very distantly, very far off, he could hear Crowley shouting something at him, and Crowley, Aziraphale reminded himself, was dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we’re almost to present day everyone!!! operation makes this idiots happy is a GO GO GO (probably maybe but i still love angst and dislike happy endings hehe)


	10. CHAPTER TEN

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> look i could apologize for the lack of dialogue in this chapter but i'm not actually sorry.

One might think that the air would smell the same wherever one was on the planet. North America, for example, would have the same scent as Denmark, permitted no one was cooking something particularly pungent. Outside factors would have a part to play, of course, and sometimes Ireland would have a hint more of a bloody odor than France would. Overall, though, humans generally could not tell the difference between nations or continents if their only hint was the air.

But Aziraphale, clever angelic Aziraphale, knew the difference between Poland and England within a matter of milliseconds.

Poland smelled like how one might imagine Christmas to smell like. Fir trees, strong, earthy vegetables, and a good glass of mead to wash down a celebratory meal. It was wholesome and deep and strapping and smelled of new beginnings and forgiveness. Aziraphale found it overpowering. It was a nice change from some of the other places he had been, that much was true, but to be inhaling something rather new and foreign to him was a bit much. He’d never truly been in a place like that before, where everyone exuded love despite speaking a different tongue than him. Golgotha certainly never smelled like Poland did despite having the one man on the entire earth who could love as unconditionally as She did. Poland never smelled like home despite Aziraphale wishing and wanting it to be. He desired for Krakow to feel like his new place of belonging so badly over the years that it made his teeth ache. 

England, on the other hand,  _ was _ home, and it smelled like absolute horseshit. It really didn’t make much sense to Aziraphale, but he knew better not to argue and question these sorts of matters. 

The stench of rotting corpses and dead things filled Aziraphale’s nostrils as he materialized outside of Crowley’s apartment building, and it was so strong that he knelt over and gagged into his hands, spit tumbling out of his mouth like a jagged waterfall. Garbage sitting out in the sun for weeks did not even come close to contention, on the contrary, it seemed quite pleasant and favorable to the city of London. Aziraphale took a few seconds to cough and compose himself, and when he stood back up to his full height his sleeve was pressed tightly against his nose. 

Not a lot had changed, it seemed, in the six years Aziraphale had been gone. The buildings were more or less the same, though the landscaping jobs seemed to have been abandoned quite a long time ago. It was very early morning; grey dawn shone at the horizon of an otherwise lightless sky. There were mounds far off in the distance and Aziraphale took them for a clump of trees. Maybe the stench of the plague had been enough for the humans to try their own sort of natural air freshener.

Despite the gloomy nature of Aziraphale’s soul, he couldn’t help but feel at ease there in the dirt road. Even if he was going to confirm his best friend - perhaps his _only_ friend - in the world was indeed dead, and even if this was his final moments on earth before returning indefinitely to Heaven, a strange calm washed over Aziraphale. Well, it felt like the very ends of calmness, at least. Aziraphale quite literally still felt nothing inside of him. The destroying of his house back in Poland had done nothing for him except lulling him into a sort of sleep-like trance. 

It was time to face the music, Aziraphale decided and walked into the apartment building, sleeve still against his nose. 

The stench of death was much worse inside because of the sheer concentration of the people dying inside it. A particularly nasty scent of shit and puss came from the right of him and caused his eyes to tear up. Already, despite knowing that England was home and this was where he ultimately belonged, Aziraphale longed for the heavily perfumed Krakow. He walked up the stone steps and tried not to gag. His stomach was doing flips inside of him and for a moment he wondered if he was actually going to throw up. He had never thrown up before and up until this moment he wasn’t sure that he even  _ could _ throw up.

The walk up to Crowley’s apartment seemed like a monumental task. Aziraphale wasn’t altogether positive about how long this blatant void inside of him would continue to suck up all of his feelings, but he was quite sure that it would probably dissolve the second he saw Crowley’s corpse. So Aziraphale took his time because the idea of feeling something for him absolutely frightened him. He wasn’t allowed to be angry or sad over Crowley’s death. If anything, he was supposed to be dancing around the room because it meant that Heaven had triumphed over Hell, but Aziraphale couldn’t bring himself to do it. If he was going to do something at all he would probably throw himself into the same grave as Crowley and lay with the remains until the earth itself turned into an empty husk. 

When he had reached the door Aziraphale didn’t bother to knock. He just snapped his fingers so the door would open and he walked in timidly, eyes now shut tight against the scene before him. The room felt cold - colder than it should be for a regular December morning - and evil and lifeless, and Aziraphale didn’t think he had felt such a deathly presence surrounding him before.

God made it that the angels cannot die. They can Fall, certainly, but they will never have to wear the robes of death and walk into senseless oblivion. Demons are very hard to discorporate and nearly impossible to kill completely, but with the right sort of tools and the correct attitude, it can be done. Aziraphale, of course, had never seen a demon die, so he didn’t know what all it took to complete such a task, but Michael had come close to slaying Lucifer himself and it had taken days to even wound him.

Crowley was not as powerful as Lucifer in any way shape or form, but he was still pretty stark and stalwart for a demon of his caliber. It would take a lot to kill him. Aziraphale wondered who had finally done it because he certainly had multiple chances and failed on all of them, and then he wondered if it was considered appropriate to punch the murderer in the face with as much force as he could muster. 

The room quite clearly smelled like stale vomit and the overall stench of death. How long had Crowley been dead for? Had the news of his passing not been discovered for years? Had the landlord or any of the neighbors on the floor noticed that Crowley had not paid rent or the smell? Probably not, Aziraphale reasoned, swallowing back a mouthful of salvia, that’s what miracles were for, so humans didn’t think anything out of the ordinary was happening. 

_ Have courage, _ Aziraphale told himself, trying to be brave enough to open his eyes.  _ It’s only for a second. You only have to find the corpse and confirm it’s dead. Then you can go to Heaven and rid your hands of this filth. _

He couldn’t give the body a sort of name anymore. Aziraphale had to distance himself lest he crumble. 

Finally, once he had his breathing nice and even, Aziraphale opened his eyes to the near-black world that waited for him.

Crowley’s room was much like the world outside: unchanged, fixed - like it was all carved into a stone tablet on a cave wall. Everything was as it was the day that Aziraphale was cast out. The fire - which resided in the crude primitive fireplace - that had slowly subsided during their conversation, seemed to have never been relit because the charred logs were in the same position as six years ago. The window was open to the elements outside, bustling in the frigid air. Underneath the window lay the desk and chair that Crowley never used but Aziraphale often had, because he wasn’t an animal who ate on the floor. Adjacent to that resided the bed, which is where Crowley almost always had been when not performing infernal miracles. On the hard-looking mattress, buried within multiple threadbare blankets, lay the dead body.

Gabriel had said that this could very well be a trick. Aziraphale knew all too well the kind of jokes and pranks Crowley liked to pull. This was not one of them. Tricking Aziraphale into drinking sour milk? Absolutely. He’d done it hundreds of times before and laughed about it for hours afterward. It was those little tiny things that Crowley got some sort of twisted joy out of. Aziraphale had never known Crowley to be this insanely cruel. It wasn’t a game or a jape or a hoax. What lay before him was the real remains of what had once been Crowley.

The horrible stench of the room emitted from the body and Aziraphale took a small, shy step towards it. The floorboards creaked beneath him from disuse, and dust rose up to greet the tips of his ears. Making sure the cuff of his jacket sleeve was covering his hand, Aziraphale pulled back the thin blanket that covered half of the corpse. 

What was on the bed couldn’t even be considered a crude imitation of a skeleton. The hair that adorned the top of the head was pale orange and brittle and broke off when Aziraphale went to move strands away from the forehead. He gasped and left it be, letting the clump in his hand drift to the floor in a forgotten manner. The rest of it seemed to cascade down like a dizzying fiery waterfall, the blankets, and protruding bones serving as rocks and trees to direct its course. The hair ended halfway down the corpse’s back and was so tangled and matted it hurt Aziraphale to even look at. He couldn’t bring himself to peer into the face yet, didn’t want to know if the eyes were open or closed. His heart thundered in his chest. He didn’t know it could do that, and he placed a hand over it to calm himself. 

Yellow skin was pulled and tugged in the most awkward of ways; like the body had stopped producing new cells years back and this was all it had to work with. Aziraphale, in the rising sun, could see the finger bones of the right hand and the veins that resided within it. When Aziraphale drew up enough courage, he looked at the face of the body.

The cheekbones seemed sharper than blades and when his eyes traveled further down the face Aziraphale could see teeth through the paper-thin skin. It seemed that this corpse had not eaten for a very long while prior to death. Then, he took a deep breath and stared at the eyes. 

They were closed against the world; pale yellow eyelids showcasing a roadmap of blue. Aziraphale wanted to kiss them as the Hellenic customs demanded. He couldn’t place gold coins upon them. It would be seen as traitorous and treasonous, and Gabriel would never forgive him for it. Aziraphale had always liked that custom and was nearly beside himself when the Christians did away with it altogether. But a kiss on each pallid lid? Surely that would be enough to soothe the boatsmen enough to acquire save passage…

“As if he’d even get a chance at Elysium,” Aziraphale muttered to himself bitterly. He let his hands flutter about the body in a methodical manner, pushing any sort of affectionate touch to the back corner of his mind. The body felt very dusty and cold, but also flexible. The time of death could have been anywhere between two hours and two days.

Then Aziraphale saw a protruding bulge in the corpse’s stomach, right where the liver resided, and let both hands poke curiously at it. It looked like it had been rather painful for a rather long while and had finally either exploded or just stopped working entirely.

The corpse made a  _ noise _ . Almost like a  _ moan. _ Aziraphale screamed and nearly fell over his own feet in fright. 

_ Crowley wasn’t dead _ .

But then, he wasn’t quite alive, either. He was somewhere in between, and it was up to Aziraphale to make that call. 

Fixing Crowley’s liver would mean he would get his best friend back. Maybe not in the best condition, mind you, but alive nonetheless. It would surely bring on Heaven’s wrath. Absolutely it would. Aziraphale would not go unpunished for this act, because a dead demon was better than a living one, to quote Gabriel. Aziraphale wasn’t God, either, and he never pretended to be. If someone was to die - by his hand or another’s - he shouldn’t stop it. That was for Her and Her alone to decide. More often than not She never intervened and let things happen naturally. Certainly, Crowley didn’t deserve Her divine intervention, being a demon, and terrorizing the general public. 

He had terrorized Aziraphale as well, and that was another excellent point on why he shouldn’t let Crowley live. Aziraphale was still bitter about their last meeting and Crowley had made no attempts to apologize or mend their shattered friendship and trust. Then again, neither had Aziraphale. He didn’t know what exactly he would’ve apologized for, but at least he could have extended his hand and kickstarted the process. 

After all,  _ Crowley was his best friend _ . His best friend in all the universes combined. If Aziraphale let him die he would no longer have an intellectual equal. He would no longer have someone to laugh at his very bad jokes or tell him when he was doing something entirely, and, quite stupidly, wrong. There might be a human or two, of course, but their lives were a brief flicker of light in Aziraphale’s immortal life, and it wouldn’t do to connect with people that were always going to die. Angels were too stuck up and Aziraphale was always afraid of saying the wrong thing. Around Crowley, he never had to be. He was free to speak his mind. Aziraphale would miss that terribly if he let Crowley pass away. 

In the grand scheme of things, he had always been a rather crummy angel. Everyone told him so. Why start behaving now? 

“Alright, you foul fiend,” Whispered Aziraphale. He hiked up his sleeves and took a deep breath in with his mouth. “Let’s get this show on the road, shall we?” 

It was never easy work, trying to heal something. In fact, on the list of most tiring activities, it had ranked a firm ranking of nine out of ten, preceding trying to baptize a child younger than four and followed by trying to get Crowley to behave himself in public. Aziraphale shook his arms and shoulders loosely and prayed that he still had enough miracles left to fix Crowley. Teleporting from Krakow to London had taken a lot out of him, and pulling a liver out of a body and drafting a new one out of thin air was going to prove difficult. 

Still, it had to be done, so Aziraphale placed his hands over the freezing flesh of Crowley’s belly and willed the skin to open itself up. He couldn’t pray for this one. He had never healed a demon before, but Aziraphale was smart enough to assume that angelic blessings would probably do more harm than good. It might even end up in permanent discorporation, which was the one thing Aziraphale was trying to avoid. 

With a little coaxing Crowley’s skin finally pulled apart. Blood poured out of the cut steadily, trailing down the body like a river and pooling around Aziraphale’s feet. He ignored it and resolved to fix that later, although he mourned for the loss of his boots. He’d always know the bloodstains were there, wouldn’t he? He grumbled to himself. It was not the time to be thinking about clothes. If he wasn’t perfectly concentrated on saving Crowley it wouldn’t happen, and then where would he be?

He’d be lonely, that’s where he would be. Aziraphale did _not_ want to be lonely. 

There was very little fat covering Crowley’s innards, and while that didn’t surprise or shock Aziraphale it did manage to annoy him. It wasn’t necessary for angels or demons to eat as frequently as humans did. In fact, while they were in Heaven and Hell it wasn’t vital in the slightest. But the bodies they inhabited were undeniably human and for beings like Crowley and him, a good meal every other decade or so would ensure that their mortal bodies would not decay or wither away. 

Aziraphale had told Crowley this a good number of times in the past. Crowley still ignored him and favored late-night binge drinking to actual substance.

He plunged a hand in and grasped the liver. It made a squelching noise as the liquid and fat around it was pressed between his fingers. Aziraphale shuddered at the sight and noise but persisted nonetheless. He couldn’t be squeamish,  _ Crowley needed him _ , so he pulled out the diseased organ with a hearty tug. 

It was well known that Aziraphale was not a doctor. He was not a warrior at the best of times, either. What he  _ was _ was a scholar, which meant that he had read millions of books on every single subject that was currently available to him. Lucky for him that meant that medical journals were an attainable source of knowledge for Aziraphale. 

Unlucky for Aziraphale to have never retained much of the information contained in said journals. The language hadn’t been flowery enough for his liking. Still, he knew vaguely what a liver was supposed to look like, and whatever was in his hands was decidedly  _ not _ a liver. Maybe it had been once, a very long time ago, but it wasn’t one now. 

A liver, as far as Aziraphale knew, was supposed to be smooth and shiny and a nice reddish-pink color. It was supposed to be slightly bigger than the palm of his hand. The thing that he was holding right now was rough and bumpy and a discolored hodgepodge of green and purple and desaturated pink that spanned the entire shriveled terrain. Large lumps had grown on the surface, making it rough to the touch. Aziraphale willed it away and miracled a new one into Crowley’s body, easily commanding the open skin to knit itself back together until only a light scar remained.

A mixture of blue and green stars flooded Aziraphale’s vision, and for a moment he thought he might faint, so as carefully as possible, Aziraphale sat in the chair at the desk and put his head between his knees, breathing in deeply through his nose and exhaling through his mouth. Whatever he was feeling right now, physical or mental or emotional, it was worth it. Crowley was worth it. He hated to admit it, but it was true. 

Crowley had always been worth it, since the first time Aziraphale first gazed upon on those golden serpent eyes, flickering with adventure and questions. Aziraphale had never seen eyes like that before. They were absolutely enthralling. He hoped he could see them soon.

A little while passed before Aziraphale felt strong enough to lift his head up again. Some color had already returned to Crowley’s frightfully yellow complexion, though it was still too waxy for his liking. Crowley had started to twitch a little as well, which meant that Aziraphale had done the procedure correctly. He smiled pleasantly to himself and started to draft an apology speech to Gabriel. 

“He is very wily. Likes to keep me on my toes,” Aziraphale would say as an excuse. “You said it yourself: he very well could have faked it. That was why you sent me.” 

It wouldn’t be a lie. Not really. He just wouldn’t be telling them the part where he had quite literally brought Crowley back from the dead. Heaven didn’t need to know that. Heaven didn’t need to know a lot of things regarding him and Crowley. 

Aziraphale wondered what caused Crowley’s liver to corrode like that. It seemed like a pretty human cause, most of which Crowley could have simply miracled away. It didn’t make sense that it got that bad. Had someone come in and tried to do away with Crowley? Might it have been the messenger angel that alerted Gabriel in the first place? That didn’t make sense, though. Crowley was Aziraphale’s to slay if he chose to do so. Any other angels were forbidden from harming Crowley, and any other demons were forbidden from harming Aziraphale. It was how those sorts of things went, after all. 

His eyes settled on a little glass vial on the desk just as Crowley shot up from the dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> rip to aziraphale but i'm different. i would have simply not Have Feelings.


	11. CHAPTER ELEVEN

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy 'back to the present' day! i just *clutches hands tightly* love these boys so much.

**Present time**

“Maybe the reason I’m different now is that two years ago I could have stopped all this from happening and I didn’t.”

The air seemed too thin at this moment in time. The fire that Aziraphale had lit to make the soup had warmed the frozen room considerably - Crowley was no longer stuttering with cold, after all - but for all it was worth it didn’t seem to be doing either of them much good now. Aziraphale shook his head.

“That’s one of the more stupid things I have ever heard you say to me, Crowley, and I’ve heard a lot.”

“But it’s true.” Crowley didn’t raise his voice or shout, but it did err on the side of anger much like a child who wasn’t being listened to. Aziraphale felt like laughing and if the subject matter had not been so unbelievably grim, if it had not meant disrespecting dead relatives’ memories and laughing at those whose lives had been lost the past two years, he very well might have. As it stood he turned away from the cauldron of soup altogether. He needed to look Crowley in the face, needed to him to understand how so very stupid that idea truly was. It was hardly up to the angels or demons to change the course of human history. They just had to stand there and observe. Crowley knew that as well as he did. 

“You couldn’t have stopped Pestilence, dear. They’re quite unbeatable.”

Crowley sat there with his mouth slightly opening and closing. Aziraphale could plainly see just how tired he really was. “You don’t understand, angel. I could have. I was  _ right there _ .”

Long pointed talon-like hands stretched out earnestly, shaking with the tumultuous effort of supporting their own weight. Aziraphale sat next to him on the bed and lowered Crowley’s arms. Alarm bells went off in his mind. He shouldn’t be this close, not after being kissed. Perhaps the soup and warmth had made Crowley think clearly again and see the error of his past actions this night, but Aziraphale wasn’t hopeful, so he kept his distance on the small mattress and made a point of not touching him after that initial contact. 

“What would you have done, exactly? Stopped time? Stabbed them with your claws? Hm? What would you have done, Crowley?” Aziraphale’s voice was not unkind, but it was stern enough so that it was clear there was no room for arguments. 

“I don’t know. I don’t... I just feel so… useless. Useless and sad.” 

“We often do feel these sorts of things,” Said Aziraphale wisely, “I remember being particularly down during that whole library burning business. The important thing is to not let it muddy our goals and ambitions.” 

Crowley growled and grasped at his hair, tearing some of the strands away from the scalp. “You’re oversimplifying everything again! Not everything is so black and white!” 

Tenderly Aziraphale coaxed the rigid fingers away from Crowley’s head. “And not everything is your fault. You don’t have to carry the weight of human transgressions.” 

“They didn’t do anything to deserve this plague, Aziraphale. Why did this happen?” 

“It happened because She wanted to teach humans a lesson, I suppose.” Aziraphale heard Crowley suck in a breath through his teeth, press his hands into his eyes so hard that Aziraphale worried he would start to see a clear stream of blood flow down his bony face. 

“ _ They didn’t do anything _ ,” Crowley said again, this time more strained and unfocused. “Or if… if they did, they didn’t  _ know _ . She doesn’t tell anyone  _ anything _ . How are we supposed to know what She wants?”

Against all the alarms in his chest, against all that he had ever been warned about, Aziraphale pulled Crowley tightly to his chest, laying his ear against his heart. Allowing it to beat was unnecessary. Any actual bodily function was unnecessary, but the act of a thumping, rhythmic heart seemed to calm Crowley down. He didn’t remove his hands but some of the tension resolved itself and Aziraphale no longer feared blindness for him. 

“Sometimes it’s just blind faith. That’s what I’ve told myself. If I don’t understand what the Almighty wants or needs or expects, I just do whatever I think She wants and let my belief in Her do the rest.”

Crowley nearly spat the words back out at Aziraphale. “Blind faith. Ngk. A fat lot of good that does anyone.” 

“I know you don’t think so, dear, but it actually helps more than you would care to admit.” 

“Do you think the child I couldn’t save had blind faith?” 

“What do you mean? What child?” 

Aziraphale felt Crowley peel himself away and looked out the window. Dawn was peeking out over the blackened horizon. He wondered how many people never got to see the sunrise today. Probably too many to count. He sent out a quick prayer to all the lost souls, helped guide them on their flighty journey to Heaven. He wished them nothing but everlasting peace in the Lord’s home and then turned his attention solely on Crowley. His hair laid in terribly knotted ringlets down his back, splint ends wildly visible even in the dim corner of the room. 

“There was a child that ran up to Pestilence shortly after they arrived in London. I was there in the crowd. The kid bumped into me and I tried to pull them back and tell them to stay away, but I wasn’t quick enough. Pestilence offered them a sprig of poison sage and I tried to run forward and snatch the child back, but I tripped on my own two bloody feet and fell and tore my dress. So yeah… because of me, the kid died. Because I wasn’t fast enough. Took them to the church afterward though. Burned my feet to hell.”

“Crowley…” 

“I don’t want a fucking lecture, Aziraphale. I know it was stupid to go anywhere near the church, alright? But what the fuck was I supposed to do? I was  _ right there _ and I tripped. I had to do something. Anything. If I’d’ve been quicker… less clumsy… maybe the kid would still be alive. But they aren’t and I think burnt feet is a fair fucking tradeoff. It’s not like I went inside or anything.”

“I wasn’t going to lecture you.” 

“Sure, and I’m not the serpent of Eden.”

Aziraphale really wanted to kiss Crowley. Maybe start on his shoulders that were covered with black cloth and work his way up to his freckled neck, finding the constellations embedded within the skin. Maybe he’d bite Crowley’s earlobes for being such an awful idiot, for not seeing the world as it was meant to be seen, and then cross over to his angular jawline before reaching his lips. 

He might have made the slightest movement towards it too, Gabriel and Heaven be dammed, had Crowley not changed the subject entirely.

“Why did you leave me?” 

It caught Aziraphale off guard and he swallowed away his sinful thoughts. “You told me to get out.”

“But I did not say ‘leave me’, now did I?” 

“What would you have had me do?”   
  
He watched Crowley’s shoulders move up and down in a shrug. “I don’t know… not go to fucking Poland for a start?” 

“I didn’t want to run into you and have you yell at me at the marketplace.” 

“Yeah, angel, because you know how much I  _ love _ getting into rows with you in public. That sounds so like me.”

“You’re having a row with me right now.” 

“This? This isn’t a row. And it’s in private.” 

Aziraphale pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling harshly. He tried to keep his tone calm and regular, but it probably erred on the side of poisonous and gravely annoyed. “I’m so sorry that I wasn’t able to read your mind and know  _ exactly _ what you wanted from me. Is that what you wanted? Did you want an apology? I’ll give you an apology. I’ll give you a thousand.” 

Crowley hissed softly and Aziraphale felt him pull away entirely. It was amazing how small Crowley could make himself being as tall and lanky as he was. He didn’t form the shape of a ball. He was much too angular and furious for the calm sereneness of a circular object. Crowley rather fit the mold of a rhombus. Not a square. Lots of other demons were squares. But not Crowley. Crowley was too hyper-aware of the world around him to be a square. 

“I don’t know what I want,” Crowley admitted. “But I know I didn’t want you to leave for as long as you did. A month, maybe. But not for six years.” 

“And I didn’t want to  _ leave _ , dear. You have to understand that. If I would have known what would have happened with you I would not have.”

Crowley pressed his face into the cold stone of the wall beside him. Aziraphale cringed as he imagined the coldness seeping into his skin. “It’s all in the past, angel. Should just forget about it, eh? Forgive and forget. Isn’t that what She wants you to practice?” 

“In most cases. But you’re not an angel. Don’t try and abide by rules you’re no longer bound to.” 

“Do you forgive me for dying?”

The question caught Aziraphale off guard. He hadn’t been expecting that so suddenly, and it left the feeling of a red-hot iron being whipped across his chest and stomach seven or eight times. Did he forgive Crowley for what? For being such a colossal idiot for thinking that death was going to solve his problems? Did he forgive Crowley for ruining his plans of making a sort-of okay home in Krakow? Did he forgive Crowley for almost leaving him alone in the cold, sullen, barren Earth where there was going to be no hope of an intellectual equal ever again? Did he forgive Crowley for throwing his life away just because a child had died in front of him?

The answer was immediate and prompt. Aziraphale didn’t even need to think about it. 

“ _ Yes _ . God, yes. Of course, I do. I shouldn’t. I know I shouldn’t. You’re the enemy. I should hate you for living. But I am so happy I saved you. Of course, I forgive you. You needn’t have asked, my dear.” 

“Aziraphale…” Crowley’s words were a wet whimper now. Tears filled his yellow eyes and he looked at Aziraphale once more. “I… I am…” 

Aziraphale pulled Crowley tightly to him. “I know. It’s okay. You don’t need to be. It’s alright. I’m here now.”

At that moment, with the dusty purple of the morning showing over the slight hills of the horizon, the dam broke on Crowley’s feelings. He collapsed into Aziraphale’s arms and sobbed. Aziraphale held him firmly by his armpits, his arms crossing at his back and grasping Crowley’s wiry hair. He let Crowley sob freely and openly, let the hot tears spill onto his shirt and soak into his skin. When they penetrated through to his shoulder Aziraphale thought that they felt like what he thought chemical burns might feel like. It stung, but he didn’t pull away and instead grasped Crowley tighter to his body. 

In all the memories he had had, Aziraphale could not recollect a single time when he or Crowley had cried in front of the other. It showed weakness, of course, and under no circumstances were angels ever permitted to show any type of weakness towards the inferior demon race. They were to be pillars of brilliant white granite; standing tall against the lowly ruins of dark carbonado that were scorched with sin and pointed with iniquity. Aziraphale had to continuously show Crowley how above him, both literally and figuratively, he was always going to be, and that meant he could not show emotion. 

There also, Aziraphale admitted, was the small part of him that wouldn’t want Crowley to fuss over him if he  _ did _ see Aziraphale cry. There would be hands on shoulders, soft, hushed tones in the shadowed hours of twilight, and probably even sympathy. Sympathy. From a demon. Aziraphale would have liked to see that sort of sentiment painted on Crowley. 

It had been, though. It had been very clearly sketched in the wrinkles of agony set in Crowley’s brow as he lamented the loss of the child. It had been embossed in the way his jaw had been set as he moaned about not being able to spot Pestilence. That had all been sympathy at its base core. It was very unnerving to Aziraphale. He didn’t want that sort of thing from Crowley. He did not want sympathy.

Aziraphale kept holding Crowley close to him and let him sob. He ran his knuckles up and down Crowley’s bony spine, feeling every notch and depression, every mountain and every valley. Crowley was always in extremes. His bone structure was not to be any different, and Aziraphale was glad for that. He liked that Crowley was constant and dependable in that aspect. The radicalness of his ideals and personality and physical state were always wonderous for Aziraphale to behold. He loved it. 

For a while, they just sat there. Crowley wailed like a widow and Aziraphale was as silent as stone. He kept touching Crowley ever so softly as if he were a china doll on the verge of shattering. The sunlight increased the brightness of the room, blinding Aziraphale, and soon after Crowley made a noise of discontentment. 

“Too bright, angel. Headache.” 

Aziraphale failed to tell Crowley that he probably had a headache due to dehydration. He peeled Crowley away from his thoroughly soaked shoulder and cupped his face soothingly. “What would you have me do, my dear?” 

Crowley’s face was stained with tears, his cheeks and eyes blotchy and red and swollen. Aziraphale had never seen such a sight of pure, unadulterated beauty. “Take away the sun. I can’t do it anymore.” 

He laughed, though not unkindly, and wiped away an errant tear with his thumb. Crowley’s skin felt wet and smooth under his finger. “I don’t possess the power. Why the sun? I thought you loved the stars? Why would you ever want them to disappear?” 

When Crowley sniffed Aziraphale reached into the pocket of his pants and gave him one of his handkerchiefs. Deep down he knew he was probably mothering Crowley a bit too much for both of their likings. Crowley liked being independent first and foremost, and asking for help was always out of the question. Sometimes when they had been separated for quite some time Aziraphale would hear a whisper of a rumor of how hard Crowley was making his life by doing some silly thing he ought not to be doing. Usually, it was something rather wicked and demonic and had gone quite south, and sometimes his miracles had done more bad than good, but he never asked Aziraphale for help. It would give him ideas about them being friends, after all, and they were most definitely  _ not friends _ . 

Aziraphale was a nurturer by nature and was always called to his duty of love whenever he felt sorrow and grief and anger around him. Right now Crowley was all those things and many more. Almost too many to count, in his opinion. Even if Crowley begged him to stop smothering him in love and kindness Aziraphale didn’t think he would be able to. It would quite literally go against his angelic code. But helping Crowley was against his angelic code anyways, and perhaps Aziraphale should have felt something akin to disgust at his recent actions as of late, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care.

The days spent with Crowley while nursing him back to health had helped Aziraphale to realize that while he was still very much on Heaven’s side of things and believed wholeheartedly in their code of conduct, he couldn’t exactly ignore the feelings he had for Crowley. He wasn’t sure what it was. Maybe it was just friendship. Pure, platonic friendship. He had never had that before, and it truly was a strange feeling to have to flutter about in his stomach. Maybe it was something more and he was too afraid to admit it.

He was still very afraid of Gabriel. He still had to be careful about all the things he did and most of the things he thought. 

He had to do that around Crowley as well. Aziraphale could not handle him getting any ideas, so to speak. 

After a long while of wiping his runny nose and eyes, Crowley took a shuddering breath and wrapped his bony arms around his knobby knees and clutched the moist handkerchief in his shaking hands. Aziraphale tutted. He looked so frightfully like a lost child, and maybe he was. Maybe that was what all demons were. Children without their mother. Sheep without a flock. Half of a misplaced whole. 

“I don’t like being reminded that I can’t create anymore.” He met Aziraphale’s eyes briefly, and Aziraphale raised his eyebrows in an encouraging manner. Perhaps, though, that was the wrong gesture to make. Crowley instantly moved his gaze to the mattress and didn’t seem so inclined to speak. 

“Of course you can still create! Maybe not the actual stars themselves, but drawings and paintings, certainly.”

“I can’t. It’s not the same, and even if it was, I couldn’t. Everything hurts.” 

“What do you mean everything hurts?” 

“Exactly that. You’re not deaf, angel.” 

“But that’s such a basic statement. I heard you but I don’t understand. What context do you mean? Do you hurt spiritually?” 

Crowley scoffed and gave almost a tiny inclination of a smile. “That was to be a given, I thought. No. I mean physically. My body hurts all the time - like a constant ache. My fingers hurt the most so I try to limit their usage. That’s why any creative endeavor is usually out of the question.”

“Oh dear,” said Aziraphale. “Is there anything that helps?” 

“Theriac.” 

Aziraphale shot him an angry look, though there was no real fire behind his eyes. “I’m serious, Crowley.” 

“Yeah, so am I. Being in a haze of timelessness and floating alongside your real touchable thoughts and your not so touchable fears really takes away all of my pain.” 

“That’s all very well and good, but you nearly died because you couldn’t handle your addiction. It’s not a viable option for you. I’m sorry, Crowley, but you’re just going to have to find a better solution for your problems. I hear there’s a new craze in the East, around China and those parts. Acupunc-” 

“Doesn’t work.”

“Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it, dear.”

“I  _ have _ . I have tried  _ everything _ under the bloody sun.” Crowley growled something fearsome and swiped his claw-like hands in the air. Immediately dark clouds filled the sky and blocked out any light. The room was dark again, and Crowley collapsed with his head between his knees. When he spoke again his voice was very faint and reedy. “No’h...No’hing wor’s…” 

Aziraphale fashioned a pail out of thin air and pressed it into Crowley’s hands, afraid of him throwing up on the mattress again. One frivolous miracle was enough, thank you very much. He waited until Crowley spat long streams of saliva into it before speaking again. 

“I refuse to believe that theriac is the only way to go. We’ll figure something else out. But in the meantime,  _ no more miracles.  _ You still haven’t healed fully.” 

Crowley sucked in a deep breath and pushed the bucket away, starting to sit up again. He seemed quicker to be revived this time, which gave Aziraphale hope that he was finally on the mend. “I’ve tried everything else.” 

“You haven’t tried using me as a resource. Maybe there’s something up in Heaven that can help us. You wouldn’t know.”

“Anything that is from Heaven will instantly vaporize me, so I’ll pass, angel, but thanks. Wait… on second thought… yeah, go get a nice big jug of holy water for me, Aziraphale. I’m sure that’s the best cure for all my problems.”

Aziraphale frowned, refusing to entertain the idea of murdering his best friend. “That’s not funny. Don’t make jokes about that. Not after I nearly lost you.”

“Alright fine,” Crowley waved a hand in the air nonchalantly, “don’t get your knickers in a twist. Sorry. Just forget I said anything.”

It was silent again. Aziraphale didn’t know if this silence was worse than the silence he had almost continually experienced in Krakow. This silence was different. It was more weighted, more like suffocation. Krakow’s silence was cold and empty. Aziraphale could not call it serene or sublime or even comfortable. He didn’t know which he preferred. He knew only that he was tired of it.

“Let’s cut your hair, Crowley. It might make you feel a little bit like yourself again, hm?” Aziraphale suggested, reaching out and softly clutching a coil of copper hair. “I could brush it, too. What do you say?” 

Crowley looked at him woefully. “I don’t think you’re going to give me a choice, angel.” 

Aziraphale smiled and let go of the curl. “I think you’re exactly right.”


	12. CHAPTER TWELVE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh no it's the penultimate chapter i hope neither aziraphale or crowley does something... reckless... that would be a shame.  
> anyway, enjoy some fluff. y'all deserve it!

“I missed you, you know. When I was in Poland.” Aziraphale dragged a thick bristled brush down the brambles of Crowley’s hair. 

Crowley hissed in pain and tried to put a hand to the back of his hand. Aziraphale slapped it away. “Bloody hell, angel! Just shave it off and be done with it!”

“Nonsense. Your hair is far too beautiful to just savagely cut like that. I quite like you with longer hair. Reminds me of the good times.”

“I wouldn’t say Eden was a particularly good time for you. You got demoted.”

“Thank goodness I did. I wouldn’t have met Aristotle had I been in Heaven all this time.”

“Meh. He’s overrated if you ask me.”

Aziraphale ran the brush through a particularly knotted area. “You only think that because he didn’t like you.”

Crowley threw his hands up in the air and scoffed. “That’s a perfectly good reason to think he’s overrated, Aziraphale! You can’t tell me you’ve never held a grudge before - ow! Stop trying to tear my scalp off!"

“You’re the one who didn’t brush their hair for six years. This is hardly my fault.” Aziraphale said cooly, but nevertheless he used a softer force behind his ministrations.

Truly, Crowley’s hair was beautiful. Despite probably not being washed for a very long time it wasn’t very greasy and had the slight smell of sweat, yet Aziraphale had never seen anyone sporting anything like it. It felt like an honor to even be touching Crowley’s hair like he was. He paused, picking up a small section of the hair. The strands wove around each other like one of those maypoles in the north part of the world. Aziraphale smiled softly to himself and started brushing again. The parts he had fought to tame had gone from a ratted lump of kinks to a soft, shiny, and delicate wave, and they smelled of lavender. Crowley, Aziraphale knew, liked lavender. It was clean and soothing and helped him sleep. Even if he was on the mend… Aziraphale knew there was still a long road of healing for Crowley. He was going to need all the rest he could get. 

“So, you missed me, eh, Aziraphale?” Crowley sounded content for time being.

Aziraphale nodded. “Yes, very much. I had forgotten how much I liked having you around.”

“Poland wasn’t home, then?”

His hand stilled for a second as he blinked through his thoughts before settling on, “It could have been. Very much so. I had intended on making Krawkow my permanent residence for a while. Oh, Crowley, how you would have loved it! Great big forests… I am quite sure there would be more than enough demonic intention you could have manipulated within those woods. And architecture. Oh, we would have been so happy there.” 

_“We?”_ Crowley questioned, raising an eyebrow and catching Aziraphale’s gaze. “I didn’t know there was a _we_ involved in this scenario. I thought this was entirely _you_. You know. Like a sabbatical. There are no demons on sabbaticals.”

Aziraphale smiled kindly back at him, sliding a hand to cover Crowley’s own. He was still very cold, but it was better than the delirious warmth that had covered his paper-thin skin. “Of course there’s a we. There’s always going to be a we. I can’t quite leave you to turn the humans of earth into sinners, now can I? I have to keep an eye on you.”

“Pretty shit at your job, then, angel.”

“You must be awful at yours, too, dear.” Aziraphale patted the back of Crowley’s hand and then turned his attention back to brushing his hair. 

“Why did you pick Poland?”

“It’s like I told you before: the plague wasn’t there. I was the Guardian of the Eastern Gate -”

“Which you got fired from,” Crowley reminded him quite rudely. Aziraphale pursed his lips and gave him a semi-nasty look. 

“At least _I_ didn’t get fired from being an angel.”

“Ouch. Touche.” 

“But I was Guardian for Her. I thought I could at least guard a smallish country against one person. Gabriel gave me the assignment. I admit I had wished it would have been closer to London. Maybe Ireland. Or Wales. I could deal with Wales.”

Crowley played with his own fingers absentmindedly. “Give me Scotland any day of the week.” 

“Yes, quite. Anyway, Gabriel said that he could move a few things around, pull a few strings for me. But if I didn’t want Poland to succumb to the same fate as the rest of Europe, I was really going to have to work hard at it, and even then my best might not have been good enough and Pestilence would have come back anyway. I hopefully did enough good. I even… I even shot children to ensure the survival of their cities.” 

Crowley froze and pulled away. “You… killed kids?”

Aziraphale held his hands up in defense. “I didn’t want to. I-”

“You can’t kill kids. Even _I_ don’t kill kids, and I’m evil.”

“It was for the good of the country! For the health of the people. Surely that counts for something?”

“So, what… because you… I dunno… saved some poor elderly bloke who was probably going to pop off the next week anyway… you thought it was justifiable to shoot an innocent kid?”

“The children who I shot had the plague. There was no saving them.”

Crowley hit Aziraphale on the shoulders. His strength wasn’t fully there yet; the blows hurt, but they would leave only slight bruises if even that. “You. Are. An. Angel!” Crowley cried, hitting with every word he uttered. “You. Could. Have. Healed. Them! _That’s. Your. Bloody. Job!_ ” 

Aziraphale grabbed onto Crowley’s hands and held them close to his chest. “Even if I could, they weren’t allowed inside the walls of the city. Orders from the King. They would have starved outside or got eaten by wild animals. Trust me, Crowley. I gave them the most merciful death I could think of.”

There was a weight on his ribs as Crowley bowed his head and sobbed. Aziraphale held him there, letting his hands drift up to stroke the newly brushed, newly softened hair. He wondered if this is what it would have felt like in Eden when their corporeal bodies were fresh and unknown. After a while, Crowley stilled, and Aziraphale moved to lay him down so he could sleep in a better position when he spoke, but paused and stiffened when Crowley took a deep intake of breath.

“I’m sorry,” He said.

“What are you sorry for, my dear? You didn’t do anything wrong.” 

“I’m sorry for hitting you. For yelling at you. I guess I was yelling more at myself for not being able to save that one child. If you had been there that day you probably could have stopped them.” 

“I’m not really allowed to use my miracles frivolously. I don’t think I could have. It’s alright, though. You didn’t hurt me. You’re just having a tough time, Crowley. I understand why you lash out. It’s okay. Really, it is.” Crowley lifted his head from Aziraphale’s chest, and Aziraphale, in turn, wiped away a stray tear. “Now, let’s cut your hair. What length would you like it to be?”

Crowley grabbed a ringlet and stroked it for a minute or two before speaking out loud again. “Couple of inches below my shoulder? Is that doable?” 

Aziraphale smiled and pulled scissors out of thin air. “Of course, dear.” 

The sunlight streamed through the window as he got to work, situating Crowley so he was in front of Aziraphale. From what he gathered, the sky was a clear blue upon a wintry backdrop. Cold air flew in from the window - Crowley wouldn’t let Aziraphale close it for some unknown reason - but the warmth of the fire counteracted that.

Although the silence was comfortable and welcome in the small room, Aziraphale spoke up anyways as he snipped off the first curl. As it fell it shimmered into gold dust and scattered across the air around them. 

“Do you know why humans believe in hope? I told you a long time ago. Do you remember the answer?”

Crowley shrugged. Aziraphale couldn’t make out his face. “Something about God, I’m assuming.”

“Not really, no.” Aziraphale smiled and shook his head as he snipped away Crowley’s long hair. “It’s got nothing to do with the Almighty at all, actually. Hope is entirely a concept made by humans. No celestial beings involved. The reason they choose to believe in hope is that it allows them to lead fulfilling lives. Humans, as you know, are not immortal like us. They will wither away and die, and their bones will turn to dust, and their memories will fade, and eventually, the stars will have forgotten they even existed at all. Naturally, it all seems quite dull and despairing to them. It certainly would be for me, I think.

Hope has existed for as long as Death and the other three horsemen have ravaged the Earth. Hope is the only thing that can defeat them, not you, loathe as you are to admit defeat, and not I. Hope has the tools and intelligence necessary to counteract the horribleness the horsemen bring. Humans cling to hope because it makes their lives meaningful. Without it, they might as well just succumb to awfulness. Hold still, my dear, stop squirming.”

“Hang on though, because that doesn’t make sense. Pestilence still came through Europe. People are still dying. Hope’s doing about as good of a job as I am.”

Aziraphale twitched his neck to the right a little in understanding. “I didn’t say hope would always _succeed_ , now did I? But the humans keep on believing, so hope keeps on trying to make their lives better. Sometimes it works out quite well. They’re not immortal. They need something to keep them going on a day to day basis.”

Crowley rolled his shoulders uncomfortably. “Why not just believe in God, then?”

“Sometimes God doesn’t answer sinners. They need something else as a failsafe.”

“Hope is stupid.”

“You and I are immortal. We don’t need hope to continue our existence because our existence has meaning in everything that we choose to do. Human’s lives are fleeting. They need to know they’ve made a difference. Turn, please.” 

Aziraphale gently guided Crowley’s chin to a profile side view. He really had an excellent bone structure. The Lord was seemingly feeling very sublime when She made Crowley, taking special care to smooth out any sort of pore or wrinkle that could have stained his face. His cheekbones were high and as handsome as hills on his face, his nose the perfectly jagged mountain between them, commanding respect with every turn of his head. Crowley’s lips - the same lips that had touched Aziraphale’s not long ago - were cool streams that parted the dimpled valleys of his jowls. 

He didn’t realize he had stopped all production until Crowley pointed it out. 

“Ah, sorry, dear. Got a bit lost in my own head.” A curl fell from Crowley’s head and turned into gold dust.

For a while, that was all they did. Aziraphale cut off a beautiful length of hair and Crowley just sat there in silence, sometimes breathing in a bit too harshly, like something was hurting him. Aziraphale laid a free hand on Crowley’s shoulder, who flinched at the surprise contact. 

“Are you alright, Crowley? Is the pain back?”

“The pain’s _been_ _back,_ angel. It has been for days. I thought I was doing a particularly stand-up job of hiding it from you. Apparently I need to go back to acting class…”

Aziraphale ran a hand through Crowley’s thick hair and shook it, watching some of the loose hairs fall and disappear. He looked keenly at the ends of Crowley’s hair, deciding if it was even enough or not. Crowley took great pride in his hair. How it looked. How it felt. How it fell across his back. It wouldn’t do to have anything less than perfect, and Aziraphale, for all the pain he knew Crowley was in, owed him nothing less than absolute perfection. 

“You don’t need to hide anything from me. I want to know when you’re in pain. I want to know when I can-”

The sound of bells sounded from outside drowned out whatever else Aziraphale was going to say. Crowley sat up quite quickly from his otherwise languid position. “It’s nine in the morning,” he said. 

“It is,” Replied Aziraphale, "though I don't see why that's important."

“The Pardoner is coming.”

Aziraphale raised an inquisitive eyebrow. “A Pardoner? Those slimy men who sell spine bones from a dog and call it Saint Paul’s? The ones who are supposed to give money to the poor and the orphans but pocket most of the coinage for themselves?” He sat back and crossed his arms, huffing. “It shouldn’t surprise me you’re so excited for a person like that. Right up your alley.” 

“No,” Said Crowley, waving a hand in Aziraphale’s direction dismissively. “You don’t understand. _He’s_ the real deal. _He’s_ the one who gave me the theriac.”

“I think you need to lay back, Crowley.” Aziraphale pressed the back of his hand to Crowley’s forehead, wondering if he’d gone delirious with fever again. He felt cool to the touch. “Pardoner’s are nothing but trouble. Tell nothing but lies. You mustn’t listen to such a man.” 

“He says he can cure my sin. Or could cure my sin. But I had to drink theriac to do it. It was just a happy coincidence that it took all of my pain away. But yeah. Curing my sin. That was what I really wanted.” Crowley sounded so wistful, so mournful and so melancholic that it made Aziraphale’s heart jump in hungry longing. 

Falling must have really hurt Crowley if he wanted to cure his sins. He was a demon, after all. They were supposed to rack up sins like points in football and laugh and jeer about their winning streaks over a pint of boiling sulfur in the deep stinking pits of Hell. That was what Aziraphale had envisioned, after all. He didn’t know when Crowley had the time for it, but he probably snuck away every couple of months and cajoled with the higher-ups in his department to stay up on Earth a while longer. 

He had shown remorse for some of his past transgressions, that much was true, but Crowley had never once mentioned wanting to be _forgiven_ for having performed those acts. It was absolutely out of the question. Aziraphale knew this. He thought Crowley had known that too. Once you were a Fallen Angel - a _demon_ \- forgiveness on any celestial wavelength was strictly forbidden. 

“Crowley…” Aziraphale spoke very gently as if his words could break the crystalline faith that had grown over Crowley in the years he’d been away. “I don’t want to make it seem like you are a bad person, but-” 

“I know, angel.” Crowley let out a short, cold laugh, looking down at the hands in his lap. “I’m unforgivable. Figured that out pretty quickly after you came and miracled me a new liver. Nothing changed. I’m still the same sly, sinful serpent you know and hate.” 

“I don’t hate you!” Cried Aziraphale quickly, grabbing Crowley’s hands in his own. “I don’t. I don’t know what I feel towards you, but it is not hatred.” 

“Ngk. That much is obvious by the way you acted when I kissed you.”

Aziraphale froze. It felt like a very cold egg had been cracked on his head and was running down his spine, leaving a trail of very slimy gooseflesh behind it. “Is that supposed to be a joke?” 

Crowley shrugged. “I suppose.”

“Well, it’s not a funny one. I could get into serious trouble over that, Crowley. You know that. I’m not supposed to even hang around you like I do, let alone let you _kiss_ me.” 

“So why’d you let me?” Crowley interlocked his fingers together and stretched out his arms in front of him until something in his body made a very loud, very nasty popping sound. Crowley gasped in pain, eyes going wide in distress. “ _Fuck_.” 

Aziraphale fussed over him, passing his agitated hands over his body in a fretful state. He finally settled on putting one hand behind Crowley’s freshly cut hair and one hand on his chest and forced him to lay back on the mattress. For good measure, he sent a very small, nearly undetectable miracle over Crowley’s entire being. He wasn’t sure what exactly was causing him pain, and even if he did, he wasn’t positive that another bout of pure concentrated angelic power so soon after healing his liver wouldn’t discorporate Crowley on the spot. After a couple of seconds, Crowley visibly relaxed and closed his eyes.

“Thanksssssssss,” He hissed out, curling into a ball. Aziraphale waved away his gratitude. Crowley would have done the same for him if their positions were reversed.

Come to think of it, Crowley would have done a hell of a lot more for Aziraphale than Aziraphale was currently doing for him. Crowley probably would not have left the country after a fight, for starters, and even if he had, he would’ve made sure Aziraphale was in a right state of mind and body before he left. There was a deep pit growing in Aziraphale’s stomach and he felt the sensation of nausea once again. He had failed Crowley. If only he’d been there when Pestilence had passed through… maybe Crowley wouldn’t have tried to commit suicide.

There was something that Aziraphale could do, though, now that he was here. He sat beside Crowley for a little while, admiring the work he’d done on his hair. A professional could have probably made it look better, but for an angel who was better at stabbing than shearing, Aziraphale thought he had done a pretty good job, all things considered. 

It didn’t take long for Crowley to drift off after that, aided by the Pardoner’s coaxing outside the window. Aziraphale would begrudgingly admit he had a few good reasons to buy theriac and other objects that were of no actual spiritual importance. It wasn’t the human's fault that they were dying, but they themselves didn’t know that, so it made sense that the Pardoner and other clergy members were blaming the general population for being sinful heathens. Crowley was part of that general population. It was only natural he’d give in. But none of that meant Aziraphale was going to idly grant the Pardoner clemency. 

Soon after Crowley’s breathing evened out, Aziraphale passed his thumb over his forehead, letting a message sink into his dreamscape that he was going to leave and come back in an hour or two. Then he stood up, ran his hands over his coat, shirt, and pants, and walked out of Crowley’s apartment and into the outside world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> look my minor in college is a very useless degree in medieval/renaissance studies so i know absolutely fuck all about most things BUT i do know that literally every intelligent person with a brain fucking despised pardoners and the church very rarely hired them out bc they were mainly all greasy slimeballs who pocketed 90% of the money they'd been given. chaucer especially hated pardoners. but to be fair chaucer hated everyone (and i hate him).


	13. CHAPTER THIRTEEN

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh boy! it's the end!  
> i should've uploaded this chapter earlier but school and depression kicked my ass ahhhhhh

What Aziraphale thought were trees had actually been mounds of corpses that were waiting to be burnt or buried. It had shocked him the first time he had seen them, all bloated and yellow and nearly bursting with sacs of puss. He didn’t blame Crowley in the slightest for not setting foot outside his house. If Aziraphale didn’t have business with the humans he probably would become a shut-in as well. Of course, he would miss all the literature and the food while he was away, but if it meant he wouldn’t have to look at all this putrid death that almost made his very bones ache with horror, he would be willing to miss out on a thing or two. 

The corpses reeked more in the high noon sun. Aziraphale held a hand up to his nose and breathed in through his mouth to help abide by the smell of death. It was something that he had never gotten used to. A warrior who couldn’t stomach the stench of eternal sleep. An angel who couldn’t handle the aroma of loss of life. Gabriel would laugh at him wholly and completely, probably nudge him a little too harshly, and tell him to get a grip. Aziraphale probably needed to. An angel needed to get used to these sorts of things after all. Everything around him would die eventually. Nothing given to him was ever going to be constant, and everything he hoarded away, books and knowledge and fine wines, would all disappear eventually within a millennium or two. 

Maybe that was why Aziraphale was so hell-bent on making Crowley stay. 

Maybe that was why Aziraphale was practically marching like a soldier down the street towards the church, and maybe that was why he grabbed the back of the Pardoner’s shirt and hauled him inside like a ragdoll without so much as a word or glance in his general direction. 

Crowley had been that constant. He had been the one thing to always stick around when the going got tough, always told Aziraphale that he didn’t need to listen to Gabriel and the other angels if he really didn’t want to. Of _course_ Aziraphale wanted to listen to them. That wasn’t the point. The point of having Crowley around to say those things is it made him feel less guilty if he had ever wanted to. Crowley had always been there to offer a shoulder to lean on when Aziraphale got a little too drunk in Rome. He’d been there to offer a helping hand, too, even though Aziraphale had never really taken it before. 

But Crowley, above all, had been the one thing Aziraphale had managed to hang on to since his first day on Earth, and that meant more to him than any book in the world. 

“Beggin’ yer pardon,” Said the man in Aziraphale’s grasp. He had already started to sweat a little when Aziraphale had coldly gazed upon him for only a fraction of a second. “I was in the middle of a sermon.” 

“Oh,” Said Aziraphale phlegmatically. “Is  _ that _ what we’re calling what you do these days? Sermons?”

“That’s what I call ‘em. But- but I can see that ye be a man of intellect, and so… and so I don’t see a real need to call ‘em sermons ‘round ye.” 

Aziraphale chuckled emotionlessly. He wouldn’t call himself a vengeful angel. That was a title better sported by Michael or Sandalphon, both of whom had either forced Lucifer out of Heaven or had turned people into salt pillars. Unlike those two who craved war and violence in order to spread their Mother’s word, Aziraphale much rather preferred to use peace and reverence to solve problems and keep the faith of Her alive in others. But it seemed wrong to let this man, who had so willingly called Aziraphale  _ intelligent _ and smelled indefinitely of piss, continue to preach his so-called sermons without any sort of consequence whatsoever. Aziraphale let him go on the cold stone floor and put a leg out to stop the Pardoner from trying to escape. 

“A man came to you four years ago. You gave him theriac. You very nearly killed him.” 

The Pardoner stuttered, drumming his fingers together, and now it seemed to be him trying to avoid Aziraphale’s cold, hard stare. “Lots of people come- come to me for spiritual ails. I can’t keep track- track of them. Do you think I-I have a list?” 

Aziraphale knelt down before the man. He had never been anything but kind within the confines of a Church. A place of worship, no matter how different from his own it could have been, was never to be home to war and hatred. But She was known to break Her own rules a little bit, so Aziraphale thought he could too. His hand grasped the Pardoner’s greasy hair at the base of the scalp and yanked. Hard. Hard enough for the man to cry out.

“I know you don’t have a list. I don’t even expect you to remember who I’m talking about. I just expect you to suffer the consequences for your actions.” 

“If he almost died… isn’t it… well, it’s not my f-fault, now is it?” 

Aziraphale yanked harder on the scalp, breathing quite heavily while the Pardoner let out another shriek. “It  _ is _ your fault. You told him it could cure him.” 

The Pardoner shrugged as best as he was able to. “Then he is a f-fool.” 

“A fool, you say? For believing a Pardoner? Yes, I agree. My friend is quite foolish, but he is the only thing I have in my life that I rather quite like at the moment, so the blame still befalls you for leading him astray.”

“I only- only told him what I probably t-told the others! Why punish m-me for only on-one man?” Something hot soaked through Aziraphale’s leather shoe. He let his eyes drift downward. The Pardoner, in his sheer terror of not knowing what his next moments were going to entail, had pissed himself. 

“Because that man is Crowley, and if anything were to happen to him I would tear Heaven and Hell and Earth asunder. I dislike your lot at the best of times. You claim to be doing Our Lord’s work yet you pocket everything you should be giving away. People have  _ died _ because of your avarice. As it happens, Crowley did not die, and so I can spare almost everything from my anger. You, however, will not be.” 

“What… What are ye goin’ to do to me?” 

“I presume you’re familiar with Saint Joseph?” Asked Aziraphale. “I have to assume you are. You probably carry a sheep’s vertebrae and call it his spine.”

“Y-yes.” The Pardoner wailed, squirming around and trying to evade Aziraphale’s grasp. He only held the man tighter to his body. With his free hand, Aziraphale forced the Pardoner’s gaze towards one of the stained glass windows at the back of the church.

Aziraphale finally threw the Pardoner down and forced him to his knees. “Start praying.”

The man gazed up at Aziraphale, tears pulsating from his eyes. “You can’t make m-me. I didn’t do n-nothin’ wrong. Just my j-job. That’s a-all.” 

“Your  _ job _ nearly cost my best friend his life. Nearly cost me  _ my life _ . It’s never just  _ your job _ . It’s never just  _ anyone’s job _ . There are consequences to every single action that you partake in. You can pray or you can refrain. I won’t force you to do so. But I promise you that when you meet Peter he will not let you in, least of all because you smell of human excrement, and so I am telling you, sir, that Joseph is your best way to get to Heaven.” 

The Pardoner looked up at Aziraphale, eyes wet with fear for a moment before he got up on one knee and blinked away his feelings. Aziraphale stood his ground and glared down at him. He could feel the angelic power coursing through his veins., his bones humming with the very thought of it. Churches had always made him stronger. Aziraphale almost felt at home when he was in a House of God. Almost. His actual home was with Crowley in whatever capacity he could have him. “You’re going to kill me. You’re going to kill me because I told your friend that theriac can cure him and he was dumb enough to believe me.”

Aziraphale snatched the front of the Pardoner’s shirt and held him up by his collar, high enough so his bare feet were hovering a couple of inches above the ground. He snarled, forgetting his words for only a second before snapping, “Crowley is  _ not dumb _ .” 

The purple, blue, green, and yellow rounded stained glass at the other end of the cathedral made it look as if the Pardoner had a halo. God had always sent Her children mixed messages. Gabriel, when he was ordered to inform Mary of her conception of Jesus, had been sent a basket of bloody rabbit feet. No one knew what to make of it until it was almost too late. 

It seemed to Aziraphale that God wanted one of two things from him. Either She wanted Aziraphale to kill the Pardoner in front of Her, in the Church, in her home which was to be regarded as peaceful and sanctified. Or She wanted Aziraphale to let him go and get on with his miserable, weaselly life.

Aziraphale knew which one he preferred. He just hoped the Lord agreed with him. 

All at once, the air around him grew frigid and thin. The powers within Aziraphale awakened and sprouted bright blue eyes all across his skin, blinking with sparkling golden lashes. His actual eyes, the ones that were always present on his corporeal body, glowed brighter than any known star in the universe. The Pardoner really started to scream now, and terrified hands clawed at the stony fists that had an iron-like hold on him. Aziraphale made no attempt to flinch. He did not feel pain. He did not feel anything except calm rage. 

He raised his free hand up, face lack of emotion, and-

“ _ AZIRAPHALE! _ ”

The eyes that had adorned Aziraphale’s skin like freckles had popped back inside of him, crawling back to the humming bones where they were normally housed. In his shock at the voice, he had let go of the Pardoner, who had enough common sense to scramble all the way back towards the altar at the other end of the Church. Aziraphale, hand still raised and now slightly shaking, turned his head to find Crowley kneeling in the doorway, hair loose and flying, chest heaving up in down due to heavy exertion. 

“Crowley? Dear… you are supposed to be asleep.” Aziraphale softly scolded him, but his voice held more panic than admonishment. 

“How can I bloody ssssleep when you’re off killing a man, angel?” Crowley asked him in between gulps of deep breaths. He clutched the fabric of his dress right about his heart. Aziraphale wondered if he had worked himself too hard getting here. Despite the fact that Crowley's room was clearly visible from where the pair of them were, Crowley had not walked farther than a couple of inches in what was probably years. Aziraphale knew that he had lost the tone of muscles he had in his legs. “What did he ever do to you, eh?” 

Aziraphale blinked, a deer caught in the headlights. “What did he ever- Crowley, he nearly  _ killed you _ .” 

“No. _I_ nearly killed myself.” 

“He gave you the theriac!” 

Crowley shrugged. “I would have found another way regardless.” 

“He’s a lying, deceitful human!” 

“Aziraphale. You know that’s not fair. _I’m_ a lying, deceitful demon. You’re not trying to blast me to kingdom come. Why would he be any different?” 

“Because… well, because-”

“It’s not your fault.”

Aziraphale caught Crowley’s eyes for a brief moment. They dazzled in the sunlight. Transparent amber dotted with golden hellfire. They were too bright, so he looked away again. Up at the simple ceiling of crisscrossed wooden beams. He bit his lip. “I know.” 

“Aziraphale. It’s not your fault.” 

His words sounded quieter this time, more unsure of himself as he said, “I-I know.” 

Crowley crawled a little closer. What should have been a quick and painless task had him sucking in breath harshly. Aziraphale wondered if Crowley was holding back screams. A demon setting foot inside of a Church was bad enough, but doubled with the joint pain he seemed to constantly carry like a cross on his back Aziraphale could only assume that Crowley felt like he was in Hell again. Aziraphale met him in a crouched position in the threshold and placed a hand on his shoulder so as to stop him from moving another millimeter. Crowley rested his forehead on Aziraphale’s shoulder, wrapping loose arms around his middle. 

“It’s not your fault, Aziraphale, it’s not your fault. None of it is. It’s not your fault. You can stop carrying your guilt. It’s not your fault. Please don’t kill that man. What is done is done. Murder is not going to make you feel any better.” 

“I almost-” The words got lost in his throat and Aziraphale choked on them. He shut his eyes tight against the floodgates of tears and hugged Crowley back. Tightly. He held Crowley like he was tough coal, like he could turn into a diamond if Aziraphale held him hard enough. Crowley smelled like fire and salt and sulfur and the reeds he would pick at the banks of the Thames river. Aziraphale inhaled deeply and tried to commit the scent to his immortal memory. Whatever Crowley smelled like, Aziraphale was sure he was supposed to hate it. But he didn’t think he could live another day without the smell of Crowley beside him. He took a shuddering breath in. “I almost  _ lost you _ .” 

One of Crowley’s hands came up and stroked Aziraphale’s curls over and over again, the long nails getting tangled up. “I know. I’m so sorry angel. So, so sorry. But you won’t lose me ever again. I’m sorry. It’s my fault. Not yours. Never yours.” 

“What if I hadn’t been fast enough?” Even though Aziraphale had shut his eyes as tight as he could the tears still poked their way through, hot and prickly against his skin. 

“But you  _ were _ , Aziraphale. You were. You were fast enough and brave enough and smart enough. You were enough. You  _ are _ enough, and I don’t know who I’m supposed to thank, but I thank them. I’ll thank God for you if I need to. Gabriel, even.” 

“Crowley, I-” 

“It’s okay. It’s not your fault.”

“But-”

“ _ Aziraphale.” _

And then, finally, Aziraphale let the tears spill down his face, down his cheeks and onto Crowley’s bare shoulder. He was so thin that his shirt had slid off, and for a moment Aziraphale started to pull away because he didn’t know what angel tears did to a demon’s skin and if Crowley was going to die now because Aziraphale had been a reckless moron then he might as well just-

Crowley had pulled him back. Aziraphale started to physically protest again until he was shushed and lulled into the crook of Crowley’s collarbone. He could hear the blood rushing through ancient veins, breaths wheezing out of disused lungs. It calmed him. Crowley’s vitals, although still weak and frankly terrifying, were a sign that they were okay. Both of them were okay. If they weren’t now then at least they would be someday. Aziraphale just sobbed freely, allowing his wails of guilt and sorrow and loss to echo around the cathedral and settle within the floorboards below.

He had buried it for days now - his feelings of shame and remorse. Aziraphale didn’t even realize he was holding in those feelings if he had been honest with himself, which, obviously, he hadn’t been for a very long time. He had been so angry when he begged Gabriel for a position  _ anywhere else _ in the world he didn’t stop to think about the full consequences of his actions. True, Aziraphale could not have known the future. He was not omnipresent like the Lord was, much to the dismay of a couple of people dotted throughout history. But he knew Crowley, and he knew about the self-destructive tendencies Crowley carried with him like it was some type of badge of honor. This had been a very real possibility and Aziraphale flat out ignored it. He ignored it because it was easier to be angry than to be wrong. It was easier to blame Crowley for their falling out when he was just as much at fault. 

Aziraphale, loathe as he was to admit it, had his flaws. Everything did in their own way. 

Luckily, where his flaw was holding grudges and stubbornness, one of Crowley’s many good traits was to forgive and forget. Let bygones be bygones, so to speak. 

“It’s okay. It’s okay. I’ve got you. Let me just-” Crowley sort of awkwardly scooted backward with Aziraphale in his arms, away from the threshold of the Church and out of the doorway completely. Aziraphale heard him sigh deeply with relief and he pulled away a second time, wiping away the tears from his face and sniffing. 

“Oh, my dear, I’m - I’m so sorry. Are you-?” 

Crowley furrowed his eyebrows in a sympathetic manner, holding his arms open again. “I’m fine, angel. Just a few tiny burns. Nothing I can’t live with. I’m more worried about you.” 

“You shouldn’t be. Oh, please don’t be. Crowley, please. I’m okay. I don’t even know what came over me. I’m such a mess. I’m so sorry.” 

Crowley chuckled. He chuckled with a full-on  _ smile _ . If Aziraphale wasn’t the subject of the laugh he would probably say it was the most beautiful noise ever produced on this earth. It sounded like wind chimes on a particularly gusty day and it sounded like harps being strummed in heaven and it sounded like reeds on the river. It sounded like so many things all at once, yet it was so determinedly  _ Crowley _ that Aziraphale could pick out the sound from a million galaxies away. 

His smile, though. His smile absolutely blew Aziraphale away. 

After six long years of nothing but frowns and scowls and dirty looks, there was finally a grin on Crowley’s face. It was brighter than the sun that shone down upon the pair of them and whiter than the few puffy clouds that had been painted into the dazzling blueness of the sky. It was like cold water was being injected into Aziraphale’s body, revitalizing him and reminding him it was okay. It really was going to be okay, and he knew that because of a simple thing like Crowley’s smile. 

“Please don’t laugh at me, Crowley,” Aziraphale said, beaming himself and looking away hopefully before Crowley could notice the heat that he had felt rise to his cheeks. 

“I’m not!” Crowley laughed again and then tipped Aziraphale chin up towards his line of sight. Even his eyes were glittering with happiness. “I’m not, I just… I haven’t seen you so worked up over something so small like me in ages. It’s very humbling. I want you to know that. Didn’t think you cared for me all that much if we’re being honest.” 

“Didn’t think I-” Aziraphale blinked in astonishment. “Whatever gave you that stupid idea?” 

“Me being a demon. You being an angel. It’s textbook stuff, really.” 

Aziraphale grabbed the sides of Crowley’s head and gently pulled him so they touched foreheads. Crowley’s skin was rough against his. That was nice. It was grounding. Kept Aziraphale from thinking this was all a dream. “If you ever think such a vapid, obtuse, foolish, simple-minded, ignorant, dense though again in your life I will never ever let you see the light of day again, I swear on God Herself. Of  _ course _ I care for you. I have  _ always _ cared for you. Definitely since Eden, and if I was capable of knowing you all the way back in those days of Heaven then I cared for you then, too. If I ever gave you the impression of anything but caring for you I shall never forgive myself.” 

“Running away for six years might do it,” Crowley said, but there was no real venom behind his voice. “Oh, and completely freezing after I kissed you.” 

Aziraphale let go of the grip he had on Crowley and pulled away. “Even if I wanted to, and I’m not sure I do, I couldn’t. At the very least because Gabriel already thinks I’m not doing my job properly, and at the very most because, as you’ve already pointed out, I’m an angel and you’re a demon. I’m sure the Lord doesn’t want our kind mingling romantically.” 

Crowley shrugged. Aziraphale let him run a hand through his curls again. The look on him was almost… mournful. It was most obviously wistful and full of yearning. But the smile remained and persisted throughout it all. “I know. I wish sometimes we’d been born a different species at a different time. But I’m thankful at least that you like me enough to care about me.” 

“I’m sorry. I really am. But here,” Aziraphale grabbed Crowley’s left hand and waved his own over it. The long. thick, curved black claws receded until they were rounded moons that barely extended the tips of the fingers. He did the same for the right hand. “I know you hate when they grow out. I’ll take care of them for you. And your pain.”

Softly, Crowley spoke, voice thick with emotion. “Thank you. I couldn’t… filing them was going to be bloody impossible and I… Aziraphale, you really don’t have to worry about-” 

“I do. I want to. It’s something I need to do to make up for my own guilt and failure at not helping you sooner. So promise me. Anytime you feel excruciating pain that leaves you bedridden. Anytime you feel like you might need to drink sixty bottles of theriac in one sitting, promise me you’ll come back to me. Please.”

“Yeah, alright, angel. I promise. I can’t refuse you anything, you know that.” 

And they sat there for a while, reveling in each other's majesty. And the Pardoner slinked out of the back exit, tear-stained and pissed-stained. And sunlight filled the sky for some time, mingling with dark clouds of rain. Crowley dared to smile again and Aziraphale dared to reciprocate a grin back to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading this story! i'm not sure how many of you lurk within the witcher fandom, but that's the community I'm writing for this year's nano, so if you're remotely interested maybe consider subscribing to me? the first chapter should be out sometime in December or January depending on finals and how quick i edit it. at any rate thank you for taking this journey with aziraphale, crowley, and myself. it means a lot:)


End file.
